Hate Is An Understatement
by everyonesmells
Summary: SEBASTIAN/OFC  Anne is hard-working, shy, but most of all: average. Sebastian is contemptuous, flirtatious and way ABOVE average. The two have a chance encounter with each other...over and over again. They both hate each other, so why is chance trying to put them together?
1. Chapter 1

**Attention:** I do NOT own Glee (because we would have continuity, god forbid) and take no ownership or copyright.

**Rating:** M for future scenes and language (but really, it's for the scenes)

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><p>I never asked for a Token Gay but I suppose I should count myself lucky to have one. Kurt is sitting next to me, one leg over the other, his pale hands absentmindedly twirling the silly ends of his knit scarf as he and I scout the Lima Bean for what he calls "the best Lima can offer (besides Burberry, Alexander McQueen, do I <em>even<em> need to mention Marc Jacobs...)"-aka, man candy. It's a ritual he and I have while Blaine gets our coffee but for all I care, it just asserts Kurt's sexuality. For example,

"How about the one in the royal blue cardigan, or is he too baby face," Kurt says, "No, you're right, he reminds me of a cherub. All he needs is a loincloth and bow and arrow to harass everyone with." He leans his elbow on the chair, batting not even an eyelash as he slashes the cherub boy and redirects his attention to another—a middle-aged man with an Ivy League haircut, an "homage to Anderson Cooper. I could melt in those arms any day. Palestine, Libya...swine flu." Kurt sighs as he cups his cheek in his hand, his eyes fixated on "Anderson" from across the room.

I mock him; "Do you want me to get you an autograph?" I know it's _a bit_ wrong to make fun of Kurt and his crush on Anderson Cooper, but I find it endearing that he would push back his "holy" facial regimen to watch Anderson on CNN..._even_ _if_ the sound is on mute and replaced with Marvin Gaye. I can feel icy daggers pinching into my sides even before I meet Kurt's cold look, raising my eyebrows at what he will do next.

"That's a nice push-up bra you're wearing, I'm sure it'll compensate nicely." He tilts his head and smiles. _Ouch_. It hurts, but Kurt doesn't know that—I don't let him. I don't let him know that every time I go to Glee club, I wish I had Quinn Fabray's perfect breasts and face or Rachel Berry's voice; Mercedes' confidence, Tina's hair, Santana's promiscuity, or Brittany's figure. Is it natural to look at everyone besides yourself and think how much better they are, how even in the slightest comparison they have the upper hand? And what can I do by letting Kurt know? Accept sympathy and "you _are_ beautiful" pep talks? Trips to the mall to find clothes that hug my "figure" or bring out the _brown_ in my eyes? I'm not daft enough to let myself feel miserable, so when I stand in front of the mirror I shut my eyes and walk through dark tunnels, my hands trailing on warm walls until I feel the cold of metal. With a push, my eyes startle me as gold light means to blind me, golden treasure piling high into rooms beyond rooms, I just know it. I am Keeper of this special room, and only with my guidance can anyone else glimpse inside. It's not my intellect—everyone, if they try and care, can be smart. Neither is it my ability to listen to others troubles, successes or stories—what else do you do when you have nothing to say about yourself? My room...is Inquisitiveness. Not Curiosity. Curiosity means that I want to know, but inquisitiveness implies that I am _determined_ to know. In the trail to truth, oftentimes it is easier to stop and give up, to fool oneself into thinking that their thirst and taste of curiosity has been quenched. Not for me. And not for journalists.

I don't let Kurt or anyone know about my insecurities because I don't want sympathy or feel better "bitch talks". I want to be strong, not weak. And secretly, in the smallest ridges of my head, I think that if I don't tell anyone, they can't assert my faults. All the better for me...

"Great things come in small packages," I say, and as a sudden afterthought, "I'm sure you understand," raising an eyebrow and jerk my head to his hips. Kurt purses his lips, but the corner of his mouth tugs upward and suddenly we laugh. I lean in to quickly hug Kurt around the shoulders, his arms reaching around my back. I don't know how he and I became friends—_good_ friends—but I never want to miss a moment of it.

Blaine comes carrying a coffee holder with our orders a while later as Kurt and I are talking. It doesn't matter about what because as soon as Blaine sits down next to Kurt, Kurt leans in to kiss him on the cheek. I've been with Kurt and Blaine for a while now, so I recognize that when Blaine smiles, it's a bit tense, his eyes warily scanning the cafe to see if anyone saw. Winter was fast approaching, the air becoming bitter cold day by day as more and more people flocked to the Lima Bean for comfort. It wasn't packed to the brim like it would be in December, but there were enough people to have glanced Kurt kiss Blaine. Without saying a word, Blaine holds Kurt's hand in his and gives it a soft squeeze. I know it pains Kurt to not be able to kiss Blaine on the lips more than it pains Blaine—Kurt doesn't care what people think of them, but he didn't because of Blaine. I realize that I am once again staring at the two of them, my coffee held mid-air, the heat starting to burn my fingers through the coffee sleeve as I inwardly sigh. Their relationship was the most beautiful out of all of McKinley, like a Broadway musical or storybook tale. A small part of me bitterly thinks how two of the only open gays formed a relationship by happenstance, while I am still single in an overflowing sea of heterosexuals.

We stayed at the Lima Bean for a good hour but our coffee grew cold and the dread of homework and school the next day hoisted us up from our seats. As Blaine leads us to the front door, someone to our right calls his name and both Blaine and Kurt snap their heads to a handsome boy—maybe seventeen—in a school uniform walking towards us with a smile that only a hunter could have after shooting his prey. I didn't need his height, quiff, or strong cologne to tell me he was a douchebag; already I knew he was Sebastian Smythe.

I don't think he's looking anywhere besides Blaine (and I don't mean his face) as he saunters over. "Blaine, what a coincidence to see you here again. It's like fate," says Sebastian, pointedly ignoring Kurt and I. Blaine starts, flustered, looking back and forth from Sebastian and Kurt, his cheeks growing warm. Kurt's jaw is jut, his eyes menacing as he looks at Sebastian with open contempt and loathing. I can tell from the striking color contrast that Kurt's hand is grasping Blaine's tightly, his knuckles turning whiter by the second.

"Is that what you call reading Blaine's Facebook check-ins," asks Kurt, his voice colder than the air outside.

Sebastian looks at Kurt for the first time, his smile if even possible growing larger. He flicks his eyes over Kurt's shoulder and our eyes meet momentarily and an icy shiver goes down my back; I suddenly want to run into a corner and hug my knees. It's not that he terrifies me but rather that people like him tend to make me feel vulnerable. They have all the confidence in the world and aren't scared to rip at anothers throat or make someone feel miserable with one word or comment. I feel myself tense, dreading the awful chance that he attacks me, even if this isn't my fight.

"Is something bothering you, Kurt? You seem a bit...tense," says Sebastian cockily, tilting his head to the side with mock concern. I know it's terrible of me, but he looks kind of cute...for a "smug and raggedy man-whore".

Before Kurt can respond, Blaine hastily interjects. "We were just leaving, Sebastian. So maybe another time." He reaches out to grab the door handle but he's too far away. Instead, Sebastian holds open the door without looking away from Blaine, staring into his eyes, as I imagine it. A small part of me (maybe my evil twin?) wishes he would look at me instead. I scrunch my nose—did I really just think that?

"Online, maybe. Or you could stop by Dalton and we could, uh..." Sebastian smirks as Blaine hurriedly walks out of the door, Kurt shooting icy daggers as he walks out with Blaine. However, Sebastian doesn't notice, his eyes more intent on Blaine's butt, and is why he lets go the heavy glass door as I am halfway through. The door hits my right side and I let out an audible "oof!" My arm is starting to throb as I lead my left shoulder and edge through what little is left of open space. I start rubbing my right arm once I am outside and when I look up, I see myself face-to-face with Sebastian behind the door. My heart misses a beat and I can feel blood rushing to my cheeks. He's smiling, as if he was laughing or something and I can't stand it. The humiliation, his douchebaggery, his absolute lack of boundaries, his stupid handsome face...I'll never see him again and all I can think is how much of a jerk he is. Without thinking or batting an eye, I raise both of my fists and stick out the middle fingers, and slowly mouth "Fuck you," so he can catch the message. I walk backwards for a few seconds with my hands still raised and as coolly and non-rushed as I can, I turn my back on him and walk away. Immediately, dread fills me and as soon as I am sure he cannot see me through the door, I lightly run to where Kurt has parked his car. My heart is pounding and it takes all of my effort to not look over my shoulder, to see if Sebastian is running after me with a battle axe or spear.

That was completely unlike me. It was rash and stupid and _oh god _I _pray_ I never see him again in my life; if I do, will he tear my throat out? Why did I do it? Why couldn't I walk away? Was it pride, the fact that he laughed at me when the door caught? Do I just hate him in general? The way Kurt and Blaine talk about him, I have always thought of him as a creep and something disgusting and revolting; was I just letting those feelings out? Even though I am anxious to get as much distance between me and the cafe, I cannot help thinking on the ride home how much I wish I could have seen his face then.


	2. Chapter 2

**Attention:** I do NOT own Glee (because we would have continuity, god forbid) and take no ownership or copyright.

**Rating:** M for future scenes and language (but really, it's for the scenes)

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><p>It's been two weeks since the encounter with Sebastian at the Lima Bean and both Kurt and Blaine say that they haven't seen him there since. Still, I would have much rather preferred studying for my tests at home but I know that isn't an option—too many distractions. I glance away from my textbook and scan the Lima Bean for what may have been the thousandth time since I got here, looking for a Dalton Academy blazer or brown quiff in the crowd. To my relief, I don't see any but I'm still a bit on edge as I go back to studying Revolutionary America. I am sitting at a table in the corner of the cafe, hopefully away from any wandering eyes that have it out to kill me, relying on the dense crowd of customers to hide me. And besides, it was a Sunday; who spends their weekend at a cafe?<p>

I groan, leaning back in my chair and run my hands through my dark brown (or black) hair. What _was_ I doing here on a Sunday? My earliest test wasn't until Tuesday and even then it was _Spanish—_who needs to study for Spanish? I should be with my friends at the movies or mall, having a social life that wasn't centered around school or academics. Glee club was the only extracurricular activity that wasn't being used to enhance my college resume but even now, when I think of it, adds variety to my other clubs such as Debate Team, McKinley High Newspaper, Model United Nations, National Honor Society, etc. I grimly think that death would be much easier.

As I start considering closing my textbook and calling my mom to pick me up, I need only to look to my left and remember why I was working myself thin. A stack of newspapers lie neatly on a table next to the cashier register, big bold letters covering the headline. There were only a few left now but in the morning it was on the verge of spilling over. Tiredly, I remember that I want to be a journalist and explore the world to let voices be heard. I imagine myself starting small, working within the city but gradually expanding across the country and then internationally, wherever there was news. McKinley didn't have a good journalism course, nor was the newspaper any good. The petty low-life Jacob Ben Israel is somehow editor-in-chief this year, but next year I plan on replacing him and revising the whole system. But journalism is a hard field, with exceptional bounds to be taken to rise to the top, and most of the best journalists came from the top universities. With a sigh, I sit up in my chair and pick up my pen, ready to jot down notes. Columbia and Yale better be worth it.

I am too concentrated in my study to notice anything around me, the noises blocked out except for the rustle of the pages as I turn them one by one. It isn't until I smell pumpkin among the usual coffee smell that I look up, my eyes strained and tired. Involuntarily, I make a small choking sound and suddenly I need to go the restroom, my mouth unusually dry and the room suddenly too hot. My heart is pounding and I am surprised he can't hear it. _Sebastian_.

My eyes won't pry away from him, no matter how hard I try, like a deer looking into headlights before it gets run down. I try looking anywhere but his eyes, those eyes that are probably judging me, remembering what happened two weeks ago. God, why did I have come here today, why today of all days? He's smiling with his lips, his strong eyebrows raised in amusement, his uniform—I inwardly groan and curse. He's wearing a fine brown leather jacket that hugs him just right over a white v-neck shirt. I can't help but notice how gorgeous he looks, but only a small part of me. The rest is worried about why he was sitting across the table from me.

He speaks first. "Is this how you always spend a Sunday afternoon? Reading...," he leans in to read my textbook and I instinctively lean back with a jerk, "about U.S. History?" Sebastian smiles.

Quickly, I think what he would possibly want to do with me. Harass me? No, I don't think—hope—so; we're in a crowded cafe, he wouldn't dare. Then maybe he wanted to ask me about Blaine? Or verbally abuse me? I gulp, my stomach tying itself into knots as I mentally prepare myself for the worst. What was he going to say about me, what was he going to point out and make worse? Maybe he just wants to talk, says a part of me.

Doubt it. I stare at Sebastian (or rather, the space above his right ear), trying to keep my voice steady and strong. I don't like him and I want him to leave, he can't stay here. He can't feel as is I'm scared of him or that he can control me. Douche bags can't do that to me. "What do you want," I ask, my voice higher than normal. I grimace at my mistake but hope Sebastian translates this as a slight towards him.

He raises his eyebrows and leans backs in his chair. "That's cold. You're not even going to apologize?"

I stare at him now, about to respond but then at a loss for words. He doesn't look mad, and his eyes don't translate hate. Is he...mocking me? And when does he ever stop smiling?

"It's okay," he says, not waiting for a response. He leans forward, folding his arms onto the table as he stares into my eyes and I have no choice but to look into his. For a moment I try to think of a color for them— green with yellow, hazel? I'm lost for a moment until I forget that I hate him or who he even is. Until, "I liked it." This snaps me back to reality and out of my daze. _What?_

"What?" I must have looked stupid, my eyes huge, mouth agape and eyebrows knit together in confusion. I said it louder than I meant to.

Sebastian laughs and looks down for a moment and I have a chance to recompose myself. When he looks up, I hope he sees contempt on my face. What's he playing at? I was scared before but now I don't know what to feel: annoyed, relieved, even _more_ scared? "I would never have guessed you were the feisty type. I admit, I was shocked at first, but...," he speaks the next words softly, "it turned me on."

I am equally repulsed and shocked. He's still smiling with his lips, but it's cocky; is he playing me? I can feel heat rise to my cheeks—no one has ever said that to me and I can't help it.

"What's your name," asks Sebastian, leading the conversation after I fail to respond to his earlier remark.

"Vivian," I lie, before I can stop myself. It's my moms name but I'd rather that he not know my real one—I don't want him to find me or talk to me ever again. He gives me the creeps.

"Vivian...," he repeats, smiling with his teeth now, a twinkle in his eyes. "You seem more like an Anne, to me." My heart leaps to my throat—_that_ is my real name. I don't know how he could have known or if it was a lucky guess but I can't let him get to me or reveal my bluff.

"That's nice to know," I say, my face _hopefully_ expressionless.

A few silent seconds pass. "You're not the talkative type, are you?"

"Not with guys like you."

"Hot, sexy, and full of charm?"

"If that's what gets you to sleep at night."

"Among other things."

Before I can retort, he swiftly grabs my cellphone that is lying on the table. I move to grab it out of his hands but he pulls away from the table and stands up. He quickly presses the keys as I jump out of my chair but he turns his back to me as I make to grab it. Before I can walk in front of him, he turns around and we are suddenly too close to each other. I barely come up to his neck and I can hear him breathing softly and count the dark spots on his collar bone. I don't step away immediately, because this feeling of intimacy is too unbearably..._wonderful_. I rarely get to enjoy such rarities and so what, shame on me for enjoying it with the world's biggest douche bag. Beggars can't be choosers.

I quickly step away and at the same time Sebastian reaches into the pockets of his pants to grab his ringing cellphone. He's still looking at me when presses his thumb on "Decline" and holds it up for me to see. _543-01..._"That's my phone number," I tell him accusingly, tilting my head back to stare into his face. He smiles with his lips again and hands me my phone back, which I take roughly from his warm hands. On the screen I see "Sebastian Smythe" added to my contacts. "You have my number, and I have yours," he says. I look back up at him incredulously, my eyebrows knit together. "I'm afraid I can't stay any longer. But we'll keep in touch...Vivian." Before I can say anything, he turns around and walks off, leaving me alone in the corner.

Without thinking, I immediately delete Sebastian from my contacts but as soon as I do, I get a text from an unfamiliar number. "nice try", it reads. Surprised (and grudgingly impressed), I look up but find Sebastian to no avail. The rest of the day, I can still smell his cologne and not help but think of him. What was he up to?


	3. Chapter 3

**Attention:** I do NOT claim/own _Glee_ or its characters, except those of my creation.

**Standing in _Glee_ Universe: **After "Hold On to Sixteen", 2011. I don't know what Sebastian does in next weeks episode of "Michael", but when the story comes to that point in time, we'll see what he does/does not do.

**Authors Note: **This chapter is longer and looks more closely at Anne and the things going on in her life. Pay attention to what happens because they will develop more throughout the story. I will also update every Sunday/Saturday—please review! Your comments keep me going and help me become a better writer, so don't be afraid to be critical (or super sweet).

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><p>"How often do you masturbate a week?"<p>

I'm taken by surprise as I feel something cold and hard knock against my chin, shocking me out of the cool concentration I had just moments ago. Before I begin to face the right, I already know that it is Jacob Ben Israel, and silently thank God that I am wearing a loose jacket to hide my "curves". Our eyes meet only for a second before I swat his sleek digital recorder away from my face and turn back to write my news article. I manage to not roll my eyes.

"Do I take that as an 'often'?" His nasally voice is persistent and I can feel his beady eyes looking me up and down. I start to grow insecure but stop, reminding myself that it is _Ben Israel _and the worst the pervert can do is masturbate._ I am strong_, I remind myself, _nothing can phase me and hell if it is Israel. _I straighten my back, lift my chin and resume typing. I can hear him breathing beside me and silently hope that he goes away.

I should have known better. "Fist, fingers, or dildo? Oh, I bet you use your fingers—-"

"Stop it," I say loudly, swinging my left fist around to—hit him? I stop myself and lower it to rest on my thigh, still balled up into a fist. Day after day, I had Journalism with this sick bastard and he won't leave me or the other girls alone—but me especially. The motherfucker had leverage on me as editor-in-chief and he knows, _he knows_ that he has to write a letter of recommendation for his successor next year, and that I was dying to take his place. How can I be strong if he exploits his position and uses it to annoy the shit out of me? I'm playing a _game_; of sexual desire, Vaseline and tissue boxes. Sometimes I imagine that I give in and show him my breasts, and continue to make crazy love to him and take his virginity. Afterward, I would only need to whisper into his ear and _oila!_, an outstanding letter of recommendation with nothing but praise for me. It doesn't need saying that I try thinking of puppies to "cleanse" my mind.

Jacob takes the moments silence as a chance to repeat his question, careful not to move his recorder too close to me. "How often do you masturbate," he asks, licking his chapped lips.

I grimace and resist the urge to throttle him. Over his shoulder I see Johanna give me a look of sympathy and deeply sigh; the battle can't be won—just go with it. I sound tired as I respond, "I don't masturbate."

Jacob raises his eyebrows and incredulously says, "So you're telling me that you have never tasted the sweet bliss of vaginal penetration?" His mouth forms a "O" before I can respond and the recorder begins to slightly shake, "Or _anal_ penetration?"

If even possible, I grimace more but try not to look at him in open contempt. In his eyes, I can hate the question but not _him_. "No," I say, annoyed. "I do _not_ masturbate and do not intend to. What is this even for?"

He says all too quickly, "For a blog segment on masturbation, obviously. For an aspiring journalist you're not quick to catch-"

"Is it _really_, Jacob? Or this for personal use?"

"What kind of person do you think I am, Arnaud? Everything I do is for pure 'investigation'. That's what makes _me_, editor-in-chief." He ends the sentence smugly and is all too pleased with himself. I curse in my head.

"How silly of me to forget—you contribute _so much_ to the newspaper," I say in appraisal-coated-mock. False. He _barely_ lifts a finger and it falls to me, assistant editor. Only the unaccustomed freshman _begin_ to give Israel their articles, but eventually learn from everyone else to give them to me. Every two weeks I have to edit a minimum of twenty-five articles (in addition to writing some myself) and oversee the layout of the next paper. Our journalism teacher, a coach trying to make extra pay, is obviously no help. The fact alone that he has kept Jacob as editor-in-chief says how invested he is in the class. However, I try to see the brighter side of things. When it comes time for voting, the class will obviously hopefully vote for me in mass majority. They pay attention to my haggard appearance the day of deadlines, my reassuring smiles and constructive yet friendly criticism...right? I look over Jacob's shoulder and stare at my classmates. Suddenly, I become afraid that no, they have _not_ noticed any of it and will vote for their friends and someone entirely different. _Oh God_, maybe subtlety was the wrong choice, I should have gone for open burden and tension. I can feel my stomach tie itself into knots and there is a deep sense of dismay starting to fill me. Thank God I wore a hoodie today, otherwise I would have had to find something else to curl inside in.

I am too wound up in my thoughts that I am once again startled by Jacob. He clears his throat and I snap out of my daze, pushing my dismay to the back of my head. He looks pleased with himself, obviously missing the hidden scorn in what I said. "Anne, please. You know as well as I do that flattery won't persuade me to write you the recommendation. Personal ties can't interfere with the nomination." I surprise myself by not rolling my eyes, but instead smile sweetly and let him go on. "_But_," he leans forward and lowers his voice, "it doesn't mean I won't remember." Even if I was going to respond, he doesn't let me. He winks at me (I almost gag) and gets up, walking away, obviously pleased with himself.

I sag into my seat in relief but immediately tense as I remember the upcoming election. The rest of the period I cannot concentrate on my article and finally abandon any hope of writing anymore. I get up and walk to the middle of the room towards Sonya, my best friend since freshman year. She has papers spread out across her desk, absentmindedly doing research, for when I sit down in the desk beside her, she look up and pulls her papers into a pile without any hesitation—just delight.

Maybe I look upset because Sonya frowns and knits her black eyebrows together, reaching out to place a hand on my elbow. "What's wrong?"

I don't want to sound pathetic, or meek. Nor do I want to sound greedy and thirsty for power. But before I can help it, I find myself telling Sonya everything that had just happened and my growing sense of doom. I don't look at her as I am talking and instead look at my shoes, but when I look up, I don't know whether to be relived or hurt that she is smiling softly.

After a moments silence, she says, "You have nothing to be afraid of." I start to protest but she holds her finger up and I fall silent. "You were—_are—_badass enough to have become assistant editor as a freshman and to have kept that position for three years. You're not a stuck up biatch and trust me, everyone knows; do you remember Kendall from freshman year?" I smile, remembering the blond editor-in-chief that called everyone names and trampled on their hard work. Of course, I wasn't smiling then. "Mr. Salvos doesn't do _shit_ to help us write articles and three-fourths of the class remembers the beginning of last year when you stood up in front of the room and gave us mo'fucking _lessons_." She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. "Lessons! Holy—I can't even, I was so proud of you! You couldn't and can't stand to see the newspaper fall into disarray and it's obvious, so _obvious_ that you will do whatever it takes to make it better and to help those involved. Sometimes before class begins, I hear people talking about and empathizing with you. They _know_ how hard you are working and appreciate it like breast milk and porn!" Sonya throws her hands up into the air and I start laughing. It's a laugh mixed with embarrassment (did she really think that?) and absurdity. Porn?

I suddenly notice how light I feel, that I no longer have my stomach in knots or an overcast gloom—I feel spirited and hopeful. I can't stop smiling and I reach in to hug Sonya tightly. She smells of lavender—of reassurance and hope.

It is around six o'clock when I set my bag on the kitchen table, exhausted by the days events and activities. Jacob Ben Israel, my then-anxiety about elections, tests, homework, debate team...I eagerly pour myself a glass of cold orange juice until the carton is empty. The house is starting to come to life as the family is back together; my younger sister is in the family room watching TV, my dad opening the mail on the kitchen table and my mom watering the plants around the house. It's a cold Thursday night and soon, the fireplace will come to life even though we can use the heater—my family likes to wrap ourselves in blankets and make s'mores.

When I go to throw the carton of juice away, I open the bin and see that the trash is full, even though it should have been emptied last night. It was my sister's responsibility this week but no doubt "she forgot" for the billionth time. Instead of reprimanding her myself, I innocently call out to my mom, who is in the living room. "Mom! The trash is full and I have to throw the juice carton away!" I stay in the kitchen, patiently waiting for my mom is scold Danielle, who is three years younger than me.

My mom comes into the kitchen carrying an empty water pot and sets it down on the counter. Her eyebrows are knit but instead of calling out to Danielle, she faces my dad. "Will, did you forget to take out the trash last night?"

"What do you mean," he says, reading a letter.

"Did you forget to take out the _trash_ last night?"

My dad looks up and his eyebrows are knit together as well. We look at each other, wondering what sort of crack my mom is on.

"Me? No, it was Danielle's responsibility this week," and says louder, "Danielle!"

As my sister comes into the kitchen, my mom is confused. "Danielle? Will, I thought it was _your_ turn?"

My dad gives a small laugh and says, "Viv, I think you're starting to forget things." He gets up and as he is walking past my mom, tugs on a brown strand of hair and jokingly says, "I think you're starting to get greys." Everyone except my mom laughs as my dad ties the drawstrings on the trash bag and motions for Danielle to pick it up.

I'm standing beside my mom and so it's why I can hear her mutter, "From working so hard." I nervously glance at my dad, weary of where this will lead. Unfortunately, we were on the right path because my dad is looking at my mom, his face blank of laughter from just seconds ago.

"Excuse me," he says, rather than asks. A challenge.

My mom turns around and fiddles with the watering plot, moving it over to the sink. "Nothing," she says lightly.

"No, tell me what you said." His voice is still soft but if this continues on, I know what it will become.

My mom turns around and leans against the sink, arms crossing against her chest. She looks at the tile beside my dad's shoes. "It's just that I've been taking longer hours at the hospital, that's all." She looks up at the my dad, her face defiant.

"We both have," says my dad slowly, squinting his eyes.

"Yes, of course. We _both_ have." A short silence follows and no one moves; Danielle is still holding the trash bag in mid-air and I suck in air. My parents stare at each other, my mom defiant and my dad clenching his jaw. It was as if there stares were relaying a conversation.

"Are you saying that I'm not working hard," my dad asks quietly.

"To eventually pay for Anne's college tuition? I don't think so, no." I don't look at my dad—I'm afraid to. Why would my mom say that, what was wrong with her? My dad—both of my parents—work equally as hard. Both of them have come home late a few times or taken shifts on the weekends. How could she say that? I begin to knit my eyebrows together, growing angry at my mom.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Sorry that I don't work at a hospital that is open 24/7, unlike an _office_ that is only open for _twelve_ hours!" My dads throws his hands up in the air, his voice starting to rise. "Shame on me for working _twelve_ hours! Maybe I should get a part-time job as custodian and work for another five hours!"

"Or maybe you can do a decent job and get a bonus!"

My dad pounds his hand on the counter. "Damnit Vivian, I missed one bonus!"

"And what does that say about your next one?"

"_My_ bonus? How about _yours_? When the hell have you ever gotten one? Don't take your crap out on me-"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" My parents start raising their voices and Danielle and I exchange glances. Quietly and slowly, we walk across the kitchen to the family room, to avoid yet another recent fight.

"WHY, BECAUSE I'M TELLING THE TRUTH?"

"YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE-"

"THEN WHY DON'T YOU QUIT BEING A STUPID NURSE?"

"ONLY WHEN YOU STOP FUCKING YOUR CO-WORKERS!"

It is only for a few seconds, but it seems like a lifetime. Danielle and I are on the edge, between the tiles of the kitchen and hardwood of the family room. My breath catches in my throat, and my heart stops beating. I try breathing, but it's shallow. What did she say? What did my mom say? I look at Mom, and see her crazed face. Her eyes are wide and her hair is messy; her cardigan is falling off. What did she mean? Dad loved us. He loves us, what does she mean?

Dad grabs a bowl and throws it on the floor—SMASH! A million ear-splitting screeches assault me. He grabs another and another, SMASH _SMASH_! His face is red but that it is all I can remember because my heart is racing and I'm scared. I take Danielle's hand and run to the stairs, my socks slipping on the wood and my knees hitting the stairs as I try to run away. My heart is pounding in my ears and I don't know when Danielle lets go but I run into my room and slam the door behind me and lock it. I stand in my room but can't stand still, pacing back and forth, fidgeting until I grab my comforter and trample into the walk-in closet. I shut the door behind me and it isn't until the comforter is wrapped around me in the dark that I can feel safe.

I am breathing heavily and as my eyes adjust to the dark and I can feel tears running down my cheeks. I don't remember crying but I am now. My body shakes as tears pour down my face and cling to my chin. I think of only days ago when I wrapped my arms around Mom and clung to her, telling her I love her. I kissed Dad on the cheek this morning and his fingers ran through my hair. What is happening? I can't hear my parents, I don't know if they're still fighting. Is Mom okay, is she hurt? Would Dad hit her? I feel ashamed and nauseous for thinking it but that is all I can think of. Did he beat her, will he beat her? Dad is strong, can Mom run away? I involuntarily imagine Dad slapping Mom across the face, breaking her jaw, pushing her against the wall, choking her, calling her "bitch" and "slut". Mom will scream and beg, yell his name but he will only come at her harder. My stomach is in tight knots, they will never untie. I want to throw up, I want to throw up. I lean forward and dry heave but nothing happens, yet my stomach is mushy and my body is shaking. What happened, why was Dad acting like this all of a sudden? Why are my parents yelling at each other? Why is this happening often? I start praying to God to but I can't because I stop to listen for anything, _anything_ from downstairs and I'm afraid that something _is_ happening.

My phone vibrates in my pant pockets and my heart jumps. I forgot about it but now I dig into my pockets and clumsily hold it upright. It's a message from Danielle, reading...

My heart stops and my throat catches. I can hear my pulse in my ears and I can't tear away from the message, even though the white light is burning my eyes. I'm not thinking anything, just hearing the message playing as a loop in my head, with Danielle's accusatory voice. _It's your fault. It's your fault. It's your fault. It's __**your**__ fault._

It's my fault. My senses are dull; I don't feel anything but an emptiness, like my body is a shell—like I'm hollow. I slump against the wall. It's my fault. I made them talk to each other. I started it. I'm the reason they're fighting. I need to go to college. They need to pay the bills. It's my fault. The light turns off and I am swallowed in darkness.

I don't know how long it has been since I sat there but when I check my phone, I see it has been eleven minutes. I am no longer disheveled or distraught—just empty. Maybe crying washed away my grief, or time. Or the realization that I will have to be strong, to own up to what I did and make it right.

The darkness and comforter are soft and reassuring—I don't want to leave just yet. I consider calling Sonya but I don't want to. I don't want to talk about it just yet. I consider falling asleep, but what kind dreams will I have? None. I stare at my phone, looking at Danielle's text message with detachment. Effortlessly, without thinking, I touch the right arrow and look at a previous message. It's from Tina, recounting something funny from a class she was in today. The one before that is from Hugo, reminding me of debate practice. The one before that is from Sonya. Georgina. Brad. Sonya. Sonya. Kristen. Taylor. Lauren...Sebastian; "what are you up to? x", from three days ago, and around two weeks since our last encounter.

Thinking back, I remember getting it during English and scoffing. I hadn't even considered texting him a reply. _Scum_, I had thought. _Pretentious "x"–posh asshole_.

I still think he is scum. A skanky, pretentious, arrogant, sleazy douche bag. But I can feel the empty void through the dark and to be frank, I don't give a fuck anymore. Perhaps it is my dulled senses but I find myself texting a reply, "nothing. you?" My finger hovers over "Send" but it is only a moments hesitation before I touch it. _Sent_. I consider what I just did. What did I do? I sent Sebastian a text. Aren't you afraid of him? Not since we met again. Don't you hate him? Yes. Don't Kurt and Blaine hate him? Yes. Doesn't Sebastian want to steal Blaine away? Yes. Isn't what you are doing morally wrong? Yes.

But I can't be bothered with it right now.

Two minutes pass until my phone vibrates again. I eagerly read the message. "a bit late to reply, vivian. are you always this slow? x"

_Vivian_, I forgot about that. Again, without thinking, I reply: "only when i'm graced with the likes of you." And as an afterthought, I add an "x" to the end. I touch "Send" and notice that it hasn't even been a minute. Does it make me seem eager? I suppose so, but whatever.

Surprisingly, and to my delight, Sebastian replies in kind, maximum reply time thirty seconds. "ooo, cheeky. you've got a lot of that ;) xx" I manage to smile, even though he is talking about my butt. "xx", I see you...

"and you have a lot of mousse and ego. xxx"

Sebastian: "no one complains afterwords. xxxx"

Me: "the drunk don't count " I smile, wondering what he will do next.

Sebastian: "touche x"

I'm a bit disappointed. I had thought he would try and continue the game, but I guess I was being immature or it became boring—

Sebastian: "x"

I scrunch my nose; I don't understand.

Sebastian: "x"

What?

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

Somehow, from some part of my brain that has not been touched with the misery that has engulfed me in the past two hours, I laugh. It comes out in a burst, touching only my jaw but then spreading to my cheeks, my nose, my eyes, my head...It feels good. It's a relief and I feel a bit lighter.

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

I drop my phone on the floor, it's vibrating like crazy and won't stop! I laugh again (did I ever really stop?), and watch it twitch like mad for a few seconds. The vibrations aren't coming in intervals but rather is a straight, full on vibration. _Sebastian_, I think, grinning. Quickly, I grab the phone gingerly on the sides, so the vibration doesn't tickle me and _somehow_ manage to send, "omg stwhap! ur3 kirlling mre!", in between his messages.

Vibrate. Sebastian: "sorry"

I start texting a reply when:

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

Sebastian: "x"

I drop my phone in haste, first mad at him but then delirious with giddiness; he's killing me!

After about a minute (I tried waiting but couldn't), I text: "i hate you!"

Sebastian: "more than you do already?"

This catches me off guard. I mean, duh, he knows I hate him, but..._do_ I hate him? I try to make myself say "yes", but...there is something holding me back. Is it tonight, the texting back and forth that is making me stop in my tracks? I want to say yes, but...it would be absurd to. What did we do tonight that would make me change my mind? It was nothing but banter and a silly game, that's all. It was fun but that shouldn't mean I feel differently about him. He is the same kind of person as Jacob Ben Israel; if I did this with Jacob (I shudder), would I be in the same dilemma that I am in right now? Taking that hypothetical situation, I can't see myself at _all_ reconsidering my hate for Jacob. So why Sebastian? Is it because he made me laugh? Because laughter is a remedy for many an illness, and he was one of them? I grimace, the light from my phone turning off. Sebastian is a sleaze; a skanky, douchey, pretentious, good-for-nothing, slutty, man-whore homewrecker. He's sick, gross, greedy and selfish. All he wants is a good fuck (I can feel my cheeks growing warm) and then he moves on. Of course, I hate him. I do, I do, _I do!_

I groan, falling onto my back on the comforter. I bury my face in my hands but I can see Sebastian's stupid face floating under my eyelids and it doesn't matter when I open them either. Why can't I say I hate him? It feels wrong for some reason, but there is no reason why it should. He gives me the creeps sometimes, but...

Do I consider him a friend? Maybe it feels wrong to hate him because he was "with" me when I wasn't with anyone else. He made me feel happy when I didn't think was possible. Maybe I feel as if I am betraying that moment of reassurance if I say I hate him. I sigh, hating myself for walking into this mess. What careless abandon I had when I first texted him is gone, long gone. I need to make my mind up now, to figure out where I stand with him. I have an obligation as a friend of Kurt and Blaine to hate the perv. So why can't I?

I check the time—seven minutes have passed. I feel tired and I want to sleep, regardless of what I will dream off—anything to escape reality. I turn my phone off and throw it aside, burrowing into the folds of the comforter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Attention:** I do NOT claim/own _Glee_ or its characters, except those of my creation.

**Authors Note: **It's here, it's finally here! Technically I was supposed to publish this on Wednesday night, but editing it took me thirty minutes past midnight. This chapter has physically and mentally worn me out, and I don't know why (although I'm sure part of it is due to school stress). Officially, this chapter is _ten _pages long, in standard Times New Roman, point 12 font. I swear it looks longer in a Word document. Also, I watched the "Michael" episode near the end of chapter. Hot damn, I was almost spot on! And I hope you all watched Grant in_ CSI: Miami_ ("Terminal Velocity") because he was fantastic in it!

_Also_, I LOVE ALL OF YOU! I have gained a lot of "Story Alerts" in three weeks, and quite a few of you have put this in "Favorite Stories", as well! I am simply amazed and honored, beyond delight! This is the first time I have shared any sort of storing/writing with anyone, and to see that so many of you like it makes me incredibly happy!

And speaking of my writing, reviews are _always_ appreciated, both negative and positive. I sincerely want to become a better writer, and writing this story is my way of practicing and learning. Also, I know I'm not the only one, but before I even read a fanfic, I judge it by the number of reviews it has, because **the more reviews = the better the story.** So, if you all could, _please review the chapters_. It could be a simple sentence or paragraph—it doesn't matter! I really want this story to go well, and want as much people to read it. This sounds a bit selfish but that's part of what writing is about—sharing it with others and ultimately, many people. Thank you!

* * *

><p>I'm dreaming but it becomes harder and harder, like fog clearing away until you find yourself amidst reality. Slowly, I become aware of my surroundings; the crisp, cold air; the deafening silence. I find myself; my arms, my hands, my fingertips; my numb ears, tired eyes and taut face. My eyes are closed and I don't want to open them yet, because it means I have to wake up and begin another day. I grimace thinking about school, an odd-yet-all-too-familiar sensation gripping my stomach when I think of the inevitable. Sooner or later I will have to wake up, wash my face, brush my teeth—<p>

I frown; did my alarm go off? Halfheartedly I am frustrated at myself for disturbing my sleep, yet relieved that I still have some time before I actually have to wake up. I dare not open my eyes and look at the time, no doubt the hours (if I even had any) and minutes left would burn fluorescent even when I close my eyes, a nagging tick counting the time from the back of my head. As I turn in my sleep, I am yet again sharpening the line between dream and reality. What oddly felt normal a few seconds ago now feels strange and out of place. When did my bed become so rough? As if on a signal, a wave of sensation spreads throughout my body and I am now acutely aware of the hardness underneath me. I carelessly reach my hand out and stroke the bed, only to recoil and pull it back. My eyes open with a snap but I'm not sure if I actually did. I blink three times until I realize that I am staring into complete darkness and it takes only a few seconds longer to make sense of what is happening. The roughness...it's the carpet. And I'm on the floor because...my stomach drops and my heart grows a thousand times heavier; my shoulders sag and I am all too tired. I realize now that my face is taut because of the dry streams of water trailing down my face, which I can feel all too much. I shudder and hug my arms, still in my jacket and jeans from yesterday (or tonight). Quietly, from the farthest depths of my mind, I think about what has happened since I dozed off. Was anyone home? Maybe my dad was sleeping in the guest room, like he did oftentimes when my mom and he would get into...smaller fights. I gulp; my throat is dry and hurts. Images from when I was last awake flash before me, like a projection on the black surrounding before me; the mumble, broken bowls, my knees against the stairs, the dark, my phone—

I snap my head to the right and curse at the pitch dark, running my hands over the carpet to find my phone. There's no reason for me to use it right now, but for some odd reason I have to have it in my possession. Maybe as something tangible to solidify the events from last night, to tell the time, have the feeling of power to do anything when I'm feeling so helpless, or have something to clutch in my cold hands. I don't know but I want it with me. When my hands feel the soft ends of my dresses hanging above me, I clumsily get to my feet and feel my way to the light switch. Bracingly, I expect a ghost or monster to stand in front of me once the light is turned on, but instead I squint my eyes and between the hot tears I see that I am alone. I wipe the tears away and trail the floor with my eyes, looking for the black case that held my phone. To my surprise, I see it at the end of the closet, almost neatly tucked into the corner. I slowly walk to it, trying not to cut through the cold air, and pick it up. The plastic case is colder than I imagined, and sends another shiver down my back—or maybe it's what I know is inside it. For no reason and without thinking, I turn my phone on and only vaguely comprehend that it is 8 o'clock. I navigate to "Messages", and sure enough I see the cute messages from Sebastian.

Or at least, they _used_ to be cute. Now, looking at them under a new day and mind, I want to punch myself in the face before wringing his neck. I realize now that he was probably being an arrogant ass and flirting with me, like he does with everyone because he's "Sebastian". Does this gay motherfucker think he can charm _me_? I grimace and want to throw up, want to forget that I was even considering to like him. I remember going to sleep, riddled with thoughts of him. He made me feel safe and sound, happy and uplifted. Did I really laugh at something he did? Was I _really_ hoping he would text me faster? I want to laugh at my stupidity—how deranged was I to think that? Sebastian Smythe, the suave asshole who can charm anyone...

_Not!_ I delete all of his messages, along with my entire Inbox and manage a small smile, a gentle tug on the right corner of my lips. _Fuck you, Mr. Smythe_.

Somehow I forgot about my parents, but I remember as soon as I walk out of the closet and into my room. I feel lighter because I got rid of Sebastian but the pit in my stomach does not lessen. I have this awful foreboding and I can't shake it off, no matter how hard I try to not think about it. I wash my face, brush my teeth, change into different clothes...nothing I do helps me. I don't know what's happened or what to expect when I go downstairs, so I stand frozen in front of the door with my bag on my shoulder and keys swinging from my hand. My heart is thumping.

I couldn't hear _anything_ last night, so either nothing happened after I left or...

_It got worse_. If I felt like shit before, it's nothing to what I am feeling like now. I consider skipping school and just not leaving my room today, or climbing out of the window and falling to the ground. Maybe I can text Danielle and ask her how it looks, since her school started a while ago. As I am thinking of possible/impossible solutions, I only feel worse. Do I not have any faith left in my parents? What my dad did was...scary. I am never saw him so angry before. But, do I really think that he would do something wilder? _Could _he do something wilder?

I don't know.

As much as I am trying to convince myself that my dad is not capable of anything beyond last night, I cannot do so without feeling uneasy. Last night my world—the things closest to me that I always could count on and believe in—was torn apart. I always assumed by parents were level-headed; my mom is a nurse whose career depends on it, and my father is it by nature. Everything is always under control and never blown out of proportion. But everyone should be allowed the freedom to express their anger, right? Don't people punch the wall when they're angry? Lately, my parents have been getting into more fights and I guess it's frustrating to fight so much—eventually something like what my dad did was going to happen, right? Throwing bowls onto the ground isn't _that_ frightening, is it? I was taken by surprise, yes, but...what made my heart thump so loudly? What could possibly make me lose faith in my parents—in my father?

Like spilt water on fabric, the echoes of my mom's last words start resurfacing, slowly ebbing from the deepest depths of my mind and start engrossing me. They're just echoes now; loud, resounding, hollow echoes that I cannot put together. But soon it will be crystal clear, and my stomach twists itself into its final knot but won't stop pulling its ends, tugging and tugging, hurting and hurting, pulling on every intestine inside me like an aggressive marionette puppeteer. _Think of something, anything!_, I tell myself, _anything anything_ _**anything**_._ School, I have to go to school; yes, I will go to school, I must go now. _Without a moment's hesitation or care for the fears I had moments ago, I all too roughly open the door and bound down the hallway._ What classes do I have today, I have seven classes, seven seven seven; seven classes; I don't like the uneven number of classes, I wish they had eight—_I walk briskly down the stairs_—eight is a nice even number, it makes everything nice; eight, the number eight, four times two is eight but I hate math, math sucks, I hate everything about math but Tyler is cute, I like him; Tyler is cute, yes_—I walk to the front door, through the living room, my eyes trained on the floor—_Tyler plays on the soccer team_—a million shards of light twinkle from the corner of my eye—_Tyler plays on the soccer team_—I want to look—_Tyler—_I see red on the carpet, I can hear my mom yelling—_Tyler Tyler Tyler Tyler_—she tells my dad—"Tyler Harris, Tyler Harris"—"to stop"—"TYLER HARRIS, TYLER HARRIS, TYLER TYLER TYLER, YOUR NAME IS TYLER!"

My words echo in the silence. The house is behind me and I start walking. I focus on my steps, and not the drumming in my head.

* * *

><p>I piggishly waft the smell of mashed potatoes towards me before diving my spork into the scoop and pile it into my mouth. I try to chew but instead I swallow it whole and then bite my bread. Sonya is sitting to my left but I ignore her, intent on finishing my plate so I can get seconds. When I had walked into the cafeteria, I realized that I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, and was the reason I had been sluggish all morning. <em>Too<em> sluggish, because I didn't even try to deflect Jacob's advances. It's not until someone passing by gives me a dirty look that I slow down and chew my food. Sonya uses this to jump in.

"Are you okay," she asks. Without looking at her, I can picture her clearly: head titled to the side, soft brown eyes, hand inches away from comforting me in an instant. I told her about what happened last night and in the morning during Journalism, and I'm starting to wish I hadn't. Not because I find her annoying, but because I don't want to be reminded of it until I come home. Journalism is before lunch, but I have already been asked multiple times if I was alright during the time span, and it reminds me of my vulnerability and helplessness. I am a delicate person trying to act strong, but how can I be when I am constantly being considered as weak?

I sigh inwardly, careful not to hurt Sonya's feelings, and look at her. "Getting there," I half-lie. "I just...don't want to go home." This was completely true. I _don't_ want to go home, not to my broken family. I want to be anywhere but there.

Sonya furrows her eyebrows softly, her lips down turned into a frown as she places her hand on the small of my back. "I know," she says softly.

My throat is dry, but I keep talking. "I mean it. I don't want to see anyone; not my parents, or Danielle. I want to see them as little as possible, because I know when I do, some _shit_ is going to happen and I'll end up in my closet again." I feel hollow.

"Maybe it's just temporary...your feelings towards them."

"Maybe, but...but for now, I just, don't want to see them. Maybe I can stay late at school, and say I'm studying...," I sigh, out loud this time. What _could_ I do?

We're quiet for a moment, until Sonya gasps and grabs a fistful of my sweater in her hand. "The Lima Bean!"

"What?"

"The Lima Bean! You know how it's always packed in the winter?" She doesn't let me respond. "Well, they need more people—more staff, right? So they'll be hiring!" Her eyes are twinkling and her smile is contagious, but I don't feel the same.

I shake my head. "Yeah, but I can't go from here to there and _then_ back home. My parents will have to give me a ride and then it'll be counterproductive."

Sonya frowns and slaps me lightly on the arm, her hands held out in disbelief. "_Hello_! I have a _car_? I'll drive you there!" As I start to protest, she suddenly gasps and shrieks and begins hitting me with both of her hands, stamping her feet on the ground. "I can work there too! Oh my God, we can start saving up for concerts, movies, clothes..." Sonya keeps talking, more to herself than me, but I am in my own world as well. The Lima Bean? I never considered working in high school, because I never saw the need to. My parents bought me most of the things I wanted (the essentials) and college admissions don't look too closely as to whether you held a job or not. But, I think, this isn't about either of those. It's about escaping from my family; to flee the inevitable and endure the least of it. It was my act of selfishness. And I am going to take it.

* * *

><p>Before I know it, Sonya and I are standing to the side of the counter at the Lima Bean, our hastily made resumes clutched in our hands. Sonya's is already wrinkled, and I snatch it out of her hand to smooth it out on the counter. Honestly, she is my only hope to get away from my family and she's screwing it up—typical. As I roll my eyes and start to reprimand her, an elderly man with a turtleneck and apron approach us. He has thick-framed glasses and his hair is wispy white, but there's something young about him as well, like a bounce in his step. Is he the manager?<p>

"Hello, ladies. How are you two doing this evening?"

Sonya and I reply in unison and return the pleasantries. _Ugh_, get on with it, old timer. If there is one thing I hate more than Jacob Ben Israel, it is pleasantries. No, I do not actually care about what you did on the weekend or how nice the weather is—I just want to get on with my life, so please be quiet and give me my receipt.

He smiles, and claps his hands together. "Good, thank you. Now, if I'm to understand it, you two are here to apply for the job openings this winter?"

"Yes...sir." Do you even call coffee shop managers "sir"? I feel stupid as soon as I say it, but more so when he looks at me and smiles, like he knows I have no clue as to what I am doing. "Um...these are our resumes...unless, you have applications for us to fill out?"

I hand him Sonya and I's resumes, and as he looks them over, I try to guess what he's thinking. Probably how journalism and medically inclined Juniors can successfully work in a fast-paced environment with no previous work or experience. As if Honors English or debate club can help make a mocha machiato or mop the floor.

I brace myself for rejection, because there is no way he will hire us—he's not even smiling! I start to regret coming here when suddenly he hands us our resumes back and smiles. "Welcome to the Lima Bean!"

Sonya squeals but I'm not convinced. Say what? No way _we_ are Lima Bean material. "Really," I ask, more condescending than I meant to, if I even meant it at all.

The manager laughs and nods his head. "Yes, really. Beggars can't be choosers during this time of the year and besides, you two have exceptional resumes; someone I can count on to be hardworking and disciplined." I smile, the situation really sinking in now. I never really wanted a job this early and didn't care about getting one while in high school, unlike some other people. But regardless, I cannot help feeling excited, my heart thumping and my blood rushing. It's still a _job_, and my very first one! A sudden feeling of self-importance overcomes me, and I feel more responsible and purposeful.

"Thank you so much! Mr...um..."

"Oh come one, this isn't high school! Call me Daniel, Anne and...Sareena?"

"Sonya."

"Anne and Sonya." The manager, or rather, "Daniel", extends his hand and Sonya and I both shake it and smile at each other. Working with my best friend alongside me—hell yeah.

I don't know whether Daniel is always such a cheerful person, but he continues to smile as he tells us to come tomorrow morning to complete paperwork ("Bring your social security card, a government issued i.d., contact information...") and begin training. It won't be until Monday that we will actually begin working. As he walks away, Sonya and I turn to each other and hug, jumping up and down as people stare at us from their tables. We're still smiling broadly as we let each other go.

"Holy crap-"

"We got jobs!"

"I can't believe it..."

"We'll get paychecks!"

I look Sonya in the eye and say it the best way I can; "Thank you." She looks confused, but I keep going. "_Thank you_. It's because of you that I got this job—not because I have a good resume or whatever, but because you were and are willing to drive me here and home. It doesn't matter that you got the job as well or that you wanted one too. But because you helped me and are willing to go out of your way. My stomach turns to liquid when I think about going home and it's unbearable. And no matter what happens when I go home tonight, I'll know I have an escape the next day. So, thank you...for everything."

Sonya looks like she is about to cry but she pulls me into another hug and we stand there, expressing what we can't with words. Sure, it's just a job. But when you're scared of what might happen when you come home, scared of seeing your parents again, it's like a ticket to Paradise.

We decide to order drinks as a toast to our new employment, and are sitting at our table when as luck has it, I spot Sebastian. _Shit_. He's in his Dalton Academy uniform and standing in line, texting on his phone. He only need look up and look to the right to see Sonya and I by the windows. I first think, why the hell is he here? _Why _does he have to be here every single time that I am? Does he come here everyday, is he a caffeine junkie? But my stomach begins tying itself into a knot, and I can feel dread replacing curiosity. _Crap_. Don't get me wrong—I'm not scared of him. He can't do anything to me and I have long since stopped fearing him. No, what makes me nervous is what happened last night (was it only just last night that my world got turned upside down? It feels longer than that...). I wrote him off today in the morning, and promised myself that I wouldn't fall into his tactics again—he's a conniving pervert who acts for himself, a spoiled brat that is used to getting whatever he wants. But still, the texts haunt me, and I was in the palm of his hands, and he must have seen that. It was my moment of weakness and in his mind, I'm longer strong. Just hopeless.

I pry my eyes away from him and look at my arms on the table. Maybe if I don't look at him and keep my head low, he won't see me. I must look worried, because Sonya asks, "Anne, are you okay?"

Quietly, even though he is across the cafe and will not even be able to hear me among everyone else, I whisper, ducking my head down, only slightly glancing at her. "You know the Sebastian guy I was talking about?"

She nods her head, her eyebrows furrowed and quizzical.

"He's here," I say, widening my eyes, more as a precaution to her than my dismay. I nod my head ever so slightly to the line, and whisper, "The one in the red and blue blazer." I don't watch her look for him, but instead feverishly look around for something, _anything_, to cover my face. I consider unfolding a napkin but remember that I have a book in my bag. I quickly turn around to my bag that is hanging on the edge of the chair and am digging into it hastily when Sonya says,

"He's _cute_." WHAT?

"_What?_" I turn to look at Sonya, my eyebrows furrowed, grimacing as her face turns from keen interest to reddish brown.

"I-I mean, for a slutpig," she stammers. "What's he doing here—do you want to leave?" Oh God, _yes. _But we're at the end of the cafe and have to walk _past_ the line in order to reach the door. I brace myself and look out from under my eyes, quickly scanning the line—he's second to the counter, looking straight ahead. My best bet is to move out when he's making his order.

"Okay, when he's making his order, we _bolt_ to the door. Yes?" My stomach is squirming and I double over the table, trying to make it stop. This is making me way too uneasy.

Sonya nods, "Okay," and straps her bag on her shoulder, ready to run (walk) to the front door. I do the same, and am sitting on the edge of my seat, my left leg jiggling up and down in anticipation. _Come on, hurry up_...It seems like forever, watching Sebastian in line, ready for the moment he steps up to the counter. My stomach is hollow and squeezes itself, and only makes me feel worse.

_Worst. Week. Ever_.

I'm too busy thinking about the uneasiness in my stomach that I don't register that Sebastian is at the front of the counter, until Sonya shakes my shoulder and hurriedly says, "Come one." I always imagine myself as Tom Cruise whenever I see _Mission: Impossible_, but I never would have thought that I would be reenacting it one day. _Stealth_, I tell myself, _a shadow, unnoticed, the background_... Sonya and I walk quickly, dodging people, scooting in between chairs and tables, pressing to the sides of the walls. I curse, my heart hammering, my stomach twisting and turning. We're almost there, we're almost there...I can see the door, fifteen feet away, almost within reach. We're approaching the line, but I don't look, afraid that if I do, Sebastian will see me.

_Ten feet...nine..._

_eight..._

_seven..._

_six..._

_five..._

_four..._

_three..._

_two—_

"Excuse me," Sonya says as she is trying to move past a big, burly man who is blocking the door. He doesn't move. I'm standing behind her, on the tips of my toes, tapping my fingers nervously on the side of my thigh, looking away from the line in the opposite direction. _Oh God..._

"_Excuse me_," Sonya says louder, looking up at the man. He still doesn't move and Sonya is about to push him aside when he feels her hands on his arm. He look down, startled, and Sonya is flustered. "Can you move out of the way?" The oaf _still_ doesn't move!

"Oh my God...," I groan, my heart racing. Sebastian could be anywhere by now. I still don't dare turn my head around and look at the line, but I'm sure it doesn't take two minutes to make an order. I tense up, my shoulder rigid, my back straight—what if he walks past us? He could go in any direction and we were at the end of the line, and on either side he would be able to see us. I quickly turn my whole body around, my back to the store, awkwardly standing there as Sonya is trying to communicate with the man, who apparently has a hearing aid in his right ear. _Of course_.

Sonya is gesturing to the door, asking him to move, her face red and eyebrows furrowed. "CAN, YOU, PLEASE, MOVE? THE DOOR. THE, DOOR," she says loudly, wildly pointing to the door, like she 's jabbing the air. The man makes an "O" with his mouth, finally (_finally_) understanding Sonya. He smiles and steps forward, clearing the way to the door. I push against Sonya's back with my hands, pushing her forward. Our shoes shuffle and we're moving, I pressing against Sonya's back, until I am taken by surprise and slam against her. She stopped moving.

"Sonya, come on," I say, rushed. I push her forward but she won't move, so clumsily I squeeze past her and the man besides us, watching my feet so I don't step on anyone's toes or slip on the tile. I put one foot in front of the other, my legs crisscrossing and almost about to lose balance. I put my left hand onto the glass window to steady myself, my mind a jumble and frenzied, but when I look up my heart leaps and I am thrown off balance. I am thrown backwards into Sonya, and we both try to regain our balance. I am looking out through the glass window and into the cold outside but when I turn my head, any thought I had prior to this moment is gone in an instant. What was only inches away and is now barely a foot, is Sebastian Smythe.

My breath catches and my heart stops. Time is frozen and the cafe has gone quiet. I am looking at him and can smell his coffee; I can clearly see a dark spot on his left cheek, the gray line of shaved hair above his lip. He's towering above me and I have to crane my head up to look him in the eyes.

That is, if I wanted to. I may have stood there for less than a minute, less than thirty seconds—I don't know. But I want to get out _now_, so I turn to the left and reach for the door handle—only Sebastian was blocking it instead. My eyebrows furrow together and I'm irritated. This bitch is deliberately blocking my way because he knows that I regret last night, and he is playing it out, making it harder for me to get over. Playing me like a deck of cards.

Before I can do anything, Sonya speaks over my shoulder, leaning her hand onto the window. "_Excuse me_, can you _move_?" There's no kindness in her words, just sass and hate.

Sebastian raises his right eyebrow and looks down at Sonya condescendingly. "So you can jam the doorway? The trucks deliver in the backroom, you should try there." He waits a moment, letting the insult sink in. He's looking at Sonya over my shoulder, an expectant look on his face, like he knows what it will do to her. Sonya isn't fat, just chubby; she doesn't have a flat stomach but it doesn't roll over her pants, either. I'm hurt, because he insulted Sonya, my best friend and hell if he was going to continue to. Who the fuck does he think he is, going around and derailing people? Who made him king of Ohio?

Before I can say anything, Sonya responds, her voice as equally as condescending but calm. I can hear her blood boil underneath her skin and can imagine her eyebrows raising on her snarky face. "In that case, you should try the toilets. They can easily handles _pieces of shit_." I smile and turn to look at her, and she is just as I had imagined her. She looks at me from the corner of her eye and smiles. _That's my girl_.

"Are you referring to your people in general or just the dark ones? Either way, you all look like shit to me. That _is_ why Indians smell so much, right?" I snap my head around as Sebastian laughs and am about to _gut_ the racist bastard when I feel Sonya gripping my shoulder and trying to push me aside. I whip my head around to Sonya, her face contorted and full of rage, like she is ready to fist fight him. I want to let her have a go at him, but I realize that this is _my _fight, not hers. I can't let her be sucked into this, no matter how ill-prepared and helpless I am. As I hold Sonya back, I tell myself that I _will_ be strong and won't let Sebastian faze me. He can't get to me, use me or intimidate me.

I block Sonya's path to Sebastian and tell her to leave, that he's here for me, not her. She starts to argue but I forcefully push her back and tell her to leave. She's staring at me, her eyebrows still furrowed, but eventually nods her head, silently wishing me luck. It's not until I see her back that I turn around to Sebastian, who is standing the same way as I had left him—like a douche.

I can feel a headache coming on, either from my constant eyebrow furrowing or the fact that Sebastian is an asshole; I assume it's both. We stand there, looking each other over. He's casual, his left hand in his trouser pocket, a cup of coffee in the other. He looks at ease, as if he was just talking about the weather and not racially insulting someone. Oh wait, I think, he's smirking. Definitely a giveaway that he was up to no good. His eyes are flitting up and down, looking me over, still smirking. I grow conscious and feel ill at ease, but I push it aside. _Not today_.

I speak first. "What do you want?" My voice is hard and cold; direct and clear that I am not open to anything besides a straightforward answer. Vaguely, I remember that my stomach had been in knots, but all I can feel know is my head starting to cloud, like someone is gripping either side of it. I'm not nervous now—only angry.

Sebastian smirks and tilts his head to the side, looking at me with...fascination? His eyes are soft and not penetrating, like he isn't done looking me over yet, as if I am a zoo animal and he is observing me from the other side of glass. "Only to talk to you," he says casually, shrugging his shoulders.

"Bullshit," I say immediately in reply. The "nice" pretenses I had the last time we met are gone, and my open distaste for him is put out into the open. _Good_.

Sebastian's gapes his mouth slightly, and raises both of his eyebrows, looking out at me from under them. "That's not nice. What happened between us, Vivian? We had _such_ a good time last night," he says, ending with a smile. He raises an eyebrow and mocks concern, "Unless...you didn't feel the same way?" He leaves me hanging, nonchalantly raising his coffee cup and taking a sip. That arrogant, conniving, sick, stupid, fat, ugly pig! I want to throttle him on the spot—what is he playing at?

As he is taking a sip form his drink, my mind races with answers. What do I tell him? Do I tell him the truth, that my parents got into a fight and I needed someone to distract me? Do I lie to him and tell him that I was bored or drunk or...? _What_ can I tell him that won't portray me as weak?

"We're _not_ friends," I say. Better to avoid the question.

Sebastian smiles and raises his shoulders. "But last night—"

"Was nothing. The real question is _what do you want_?"

He pouts his lips, the corners turning down, and as innocently as douchebags can, he says, "Like I said—to talk to you. It's not illegal, is it?"

"_Come on_, cut the crap! _Why _would you want to talk to me, I don't have a penis," Sebastian smiles with his teeth, "Aren't you supposed to be hounding Blaine instead of bothering _me_?"

I must have hit the jackpot, because he closes his eyes for a moment and looks down, nodding his head. When he raises his head, he's smiling. "Bingo...You see," he takes his left hand out of his pocket and touches his fingertips to his chest, "I like Blaine. He's hot, in control, and so _charming_. He really has me going but when I think I'm close to him," he gives a short, soft laugh, sort of maniacally if I didn't know better, "his pansy boyfriend _Kurt_ sticks his ugly head where it shouldn't be. Kurt and Blaine as a couple is a _joke_. They don't belong together and Kurt is holding Blaine down. I can love Blaine down and do whatever he wants, without so much as a guilt trip." He's looking at me, but not really, like he is someplace else. "I _know_ Blaine has it in for me. Maybe not much but he's getting there, and I'm not going to let Kurt get in our way." He looks at me clearly now, his eyes hard, relaying his determination. They're a beautiful color, and I can see the shocks of color in them.

All too suddenly I realize that we are too close to each other, less than two feet away. Taken by surprise, I stumble backwards, intent on leaving a good amount of space between us. Sebastian, however, takes this another way, and starts striding towards me. "Let's have a chat, Vivian. We can talk about Kurt's demise." He brushes past me and begins walking towards a table. He's so arrogant that he doesn't look back until he is ten feet away from me.

I haven't moved from the door and am staring back at Sebastian, whose face is both a mixture of expectancy and surprise. I have absolutely no desire to talk to him any further, nevertheless about "Kurt's demise". I look at him for a moment, with no purpose but to ingrain his face into my head. I spot Sonya on the right and give her a small nod, and she comes rushing to me, glancing back at Sebastian to no doubt flick him off. She opens the door and steps out and as I am about to leave, I glance back at Sebastian once more. His face is guarded, an arrogant smile across his lips. But deep down, I know he wasn't expecting that at all, that the cards haven't played right.

My heart swells, and my stomach doesn't feel queasy. I feel warm, even though cold air is blasting at me through the open door. _Triumph_. Maybe winning does this to people, but I feel cocky and want him to have something to remember me by. So I bend over, place my left hand on my hips, and with my right hand, blow him a kiss. He's doing a great job of guarding himself, but not good enough to keep himself from furrowing his eyebrows ever so slightly. _I'll take that_.

Satisfied, I walk out into the cold. I can't wait till I tell Kurt and Blaine about this.

And actually, I can't wait until I meet Sebastian again. _I _have the upper hand now.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> What I learned from this week is that I cannot be trusted with deadlines, so the Saturday/Sunday deadline is a bit fuzzy. But, I will _always_ try to update sometime during the week. And remember to review, please. Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Surprise**—**here's the _real_ chapter 5! Haha, I would say sorry for trolling you all with a fake chapter, but I'm not—it was too funny and the reactions I got were priceless! The original plan was to post the fake one and then post the real one a day after, but I didn't finish the chapter in time. Lesson learnt: I should never set deadlines. I am _so sorry_ for not updating in a month, but I had a severe case of writer's block. _But_, I'm back in my game so hopefully I'll update more quickly.

Also, I'm looking for a **beta reader—**someone who will be able to read my chapters before they are published and critique it. I'm not looking for someone who is great at grammar, but rather, someone who can help with the plot and structure. If interested, then please private message me! I think this site as a section for beta reading, but I don't think I want to go down that road.

And again, the more reviews = the better the story. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>It's still light out, but in an hour the sun will begin to set; in fifteen minutes, I'll be home. Sonya and I talked for a few minutes when we had gotten into the car, but since then it's just been the radio breaking the silence. I can tell she's worried about me because she repeatedly tries to discreetly glance my way, her jaw set, trying to hold her tongue. She knows that I won't just be going home—I'll be going to a broken family.<p>

The entire day, I had managed to ignore the burning question festering in my head, keeping it buried deep down. There were times I forgot about it almost completely, and there were times when I was on the verge of thinking about it, but before I let that happen I would quickly move onto something else, but not quick enough for my stomach to not grow uneasy and tie itself into knots. I had a particular _dread _within me, something I could not shake off the entire day. But no matter how much weight I felt within me, I wouldn't allow myself to think about it.

Not until now.

My heart hammers and time seems to rush forward. I close my eyes but reopen them not even a second later; I want to be detached and as far away as possible, but how is that possible when this concerns the things closest to me? It's my reality being shattered and there is nothing more personal than that. I sigh, and adjust myself on the car seat, fidgeting about what I am about to do. I know that I am just stalling so without any further hesitation, without any further _thought_, I dive head first into my worries—_Dad_.

Already, I want to back out; to turn the radio up and sing along to country music, salsa, rap, whatever—anything besides this. I want to jump out of the car and ran away, to scream so loudly that I won't be able to hear inside my head. I want to get drunk and not remember anything from the past two days. I want to do anything but this, and yet—

I have to. If I want the earth to stop trembling, then I have to make sense of it all; I have to confront it. Reluctantly, with my stomach doing back flips and a sour taste in my throat, I push forward. I relive last night, and imagine the scene before me: my mom and dad arguing in front of me, Danielle standing to my left...and then the bomb that was dropped, earth shattering and toxic. It's like an eery echo bouncing off of many walls, going on and on and on..._"Only when you stop fucking your co-workers."_ My stomach instantaneously becomes a heavyweight two ton ball of steel, and falls into my gut, only it's an abyss and the sensation is never ending. I can hear the blood in my head pounding and close my eyes, leaning my head back against the seat. And I let my thoughts fly. First: _what did she mean? _WHAT did she mean? I ask myself this several times, but soon come to the realization that I am skirting the problem. I don't want to accept that situation but rather, find another reality. I don't want to face it but I have to.

My entire body shifts to the right and without opening my eyes I can sense that we are at the traffic circle, ten minutes from my house. Suddenly and without hesitation, my resolution is resolved—I _will_ face this. Perhaps because the distance between the house and I has shortened, or because I want to stop wallowing in uncertainty and grief. Either way, I open my eyes and lift my head up. My heart is hard and made of stone, and my mind is a machine, mechanically and methodically working through the problem. I won't stop, I won't dwell...I only want resolution.

Step one: confront the problem. The problem? My dad is sleeping with someone else (I can feel my stomach begin to turn but I ignore it.) Step two: what does this mean to me and my family? My dad is cheating on my mom. (I want to halt, to not think about it anymore and to push it out, but again I ignore my internal turmoil and continue.) Step three: what will happen? Divorce. (I cannot help it and shiver.) The last and final step: do I believe this? Do I believe that my dad would (is) cheat on my mom? I let the car rock me as we turn a corner and think. I've never noticed anything _unusual_ with my dad. Nothing that would hint to an affair. All he does is stay home when he can, and only goes out ever so often with his friends. Nothing suspicious...

But, maybe I never noticed. Maybe I never paid enough attention or brushed it aside. Does this make me a terrible person, a terrible daughter? Too absorbed in my own world that—

_Stop_. Stop it, I tell myself. Step four: _yes or no?_ Would he, could he? I ask myself this as we pull up to the curb, as I walk out of the car, and walk to the front step of my house. Yes...or no?

I don't know. All I am certain of is that my parents had their biggest fight last night, and anger brings out the worst in people. My mom could have been lying, or she could have been telling the truth. The tricky and horrible, gut-wrenching and terrifying thing about this simple question is hope. Do I want to hope, or give it up? If my mom was telling the truth, do I want to feel crushed, or satisfied that I knew that my dad was deceitful. As I reach for my keys and turn the door knob, I make my stance—neutral, uncertain; the safest of the three.

I don't know what to expect when I walk inside, but I stand still, scouting for whatever it was that I had seen earlier this morning. The red, deep red...a dried pool the size of my fist is almost hidden behind the sofa. Without thinking, I walk to it and impassively stare down at the red. It would have had to been a lot of blood for the carpet to absorb, and even then medical attention would have been required. I must still be in "machine" mode, because the next thing I know, I am on my knees, wafting the scent.

_Wine,_ it's wine. And sure enough, I see a fallen wine glass beside it. I am relieved, even though I don't remember being on edge. Is this what being at home is going to be like?

* * *

><p>"Are okay?"<p>

"Are you?"

"No..."

"Well, there you go."

Sonya and I are slouched over the counter, applying as much of our weight as we can onto our arms, relieving our aching backs and feet. We had arrived at the Lima Bean five hours ago and now, at noon, we are already tired from training. It's not the manual labor that is tiring us out, but rather, the standing. Not once have we been able to sit down, and knee raises only help so much. I say a silent prayer, hoping Daniel will give let us have a lunch break soon.

When Sonya and I had first arrived at the Lima Bean, we were ecstatic. We were thrilled with the idea of running back and forth to make coffee drinks, or ringing the cash register, taking people's orders. We had spent the car ride over saying things like "can I have a grande cafe latte with a pinch of cinnamon with two drips?", but never had we thought such drinks _existed_. For the first hour, Daniel had us look over a packet about drinks and their ingredients, but only as an introductory, since we will have to memorize them at home. Some drinks were simple, but others made me think I was in over my head, and to quit while I can. And before we could even wrap our heads around the drinks, Daniel then proceeded to show us the machines. What they were, what they did, how to operate them; health procedures, safety hazards, temperatures, etc, etc. Enough to make me question why I was up on a Saturday morning.

I sigh deeply and am about turn to Sonya, about to complain to her when suddenly I see Daniel out of the corner of my eye, walking towards us. I hastily stand up, and my feet begin to hurt terribly, but I manage a smile, and Sonya follows in pursuit.

"Ready for another five hours," he asks, stopping in front of us. Before Sonya or I can begin to protest (I can feel Sonya's sass from behind me), Daniel laughs. "I'm only joking, stop being so serious!" I know I should make a good impression, but I'm too tired to care. This is only a half-serious job anyways—there's always the library. As if Sonya and I _did_ laugh along with him, Daniel continues, checking his watch on his left wrist. "It's 12:05, usually when everyone changes shifts or goes on lunch break. Thirty minutes and then back to work." He smiles at us as we begin to sag our backs, dully relived and genuinely blessed. "Break," he says, as if he were a football coach, and walks away.

Hallelujah!

My first instinct is to bolt to the door, but I find myself aching all over and hobbling to the nearest table to the counter. Sonya sits down besides me and together we sit in silence, too tired to move a muscle. However, I soon feel a hollowness inside me and my stomach grumbles, and without a word, Sonya goes to retrieve our bags from the back. Curiously, I feel as if I am watching a live-telling of The Tortoise and the Hare, because Sonya is walking at an embarrassingly slow pace. Distantly, I recall a saying; something about humility over dignity.

As I contemplate this, my eyesight goes blurry and I get light-headed. My head feels dizzy and it's as if my head is spinning. No, not my head—the room. Call me a wimp, but I've never had to work hard on an empty stomach in my life, so I am beside myself, unsure of what to do. I try closing my eyes, but I still have some dignity within me, and don't want to look like a weirdo—sprawled across two chairs, half-hallucinating and still in the dirty Lima Bean apron (which I'm sure if I wasn't wearing, would be kicked out). I'm out of it, as if I were on marijuana or...other drugs. Wearily, I start looking around, looking for Sonya in hopes of relieving my growling stomach. The cafe is already busy, though it only had just turned afternoon, with almost all of the tables occupied. The cold air from outside occasionally drafted through, but the Lima Bean's heating conditioner kept the place warm and cozy.

I train my eye on the door besides the counter, leading into the back. Before I am about to pass out (not sure if I really am or just being a drama queen), I see a tall guy push open the door, with a chipper brown girl walking behind him. It takes me a while to process, to connect the ragged and disheveled girl only moments ago as the smiling and beaming girl walking towards me with brown bags in her hand as Sonya.

Unable to process immense confusion and hunger at the same time, I promptly bang my head on the table. It hurts, but I don't know what else to do with myself. I close my eyes and feel my forehead start to throb, and listen to the blood rushing in my head. The hunger is more acute with my vision deprived, and so are my other senses, which is why I can hear a clear, distinct, not-Sonya's laugh. I suppose I stripped myself of all dignity once I dropped onto the table, because my face promptly turns red with embarrassment when I look up and blow strands of hair from my face, only to find myself looking up at a cute boy with large eyebrows.

_OH GOD_. My face starts to burn up but I don't move, too sluggish to do anything. In an act of mercy, Sonya interjects and breaks the awkward (well, to me) silence (if I didn't pay attention to the laughing).

"Uh, um, Rutherford, this is my friend Anne, Anne this is Rutherford. He works here and..." She trails off, no doubt looking at me in equal embarrassment and wary.

With quite some effort, I pull myself up and lean against the back of the chair. I try looking him in the eyes, but I can't without turning red, so instead I look at the table. "Hi."

"Are you okay?" I'm still staring down at the table, but he sounds genuinely amused. _Great. _And with that, all of my allure goes down the drain.

"She's just tired, tired and all because training was hard and all," Sonya gives a tiny rushed laugh, "Here you go Anne, your lunch, you'll feel better in no time." Sonya quickly shoves my brown bag to me, but not quick enough for me to miss her death glare. Yup, got it.

* * *

><p>Now that I've had two ham and cheese sandwiches, I feel "normal" again. I don't feel loopy, on the verge of death, or dizzy...and fuck me, because I wish I was. Rutherford, the guy Sonya had introduced to me earlier, is like a godsend, and even though it's been twenty minutes since the "ordeal", I'm still feeling embarrassed, even more so because I did it in front of <em>him<em>. I could take him to the Sun and freeze it because he's _that_ hot, a genuine sight for the sore eyes, a total fine piece of ass, eye candy...Maybe I'm over-exaggerating and idolizing him but, hot damn. I don't realize I'm ogling at him until he looks back at me, and smiles.

_Damnit, not again..._I haven't talked since our "introduction", and have been listening to him and Sonya throughout the whole time. But now that he's caught me looking at him, I realize I have to break the awkward, or be forever known to him as "the freak". "Uh, so...Rutherford. That's—that's an..._interesting_ name." Oh fuck, do I want to seem like a bitch?

He starts laughing, his whole lean frame shaking. I start feeling stupid, but am surprised when he answers, "Yes, it is. That's what preps do, guilty as charged." He raises his eyebrows, which are actually strong rather than large, and tilts his chin up to the right, smiling. Stupid, cute motherfucker.

"Um, prep? As in too good to go to public schools?" Rutherford tilts his head down and looks at me from under his eyebrows, and I start to feel red again. I feel...nervous, with his undivided attention. I'm suddenly aware of the loose strands of hair coming out from my bun, or my past-due unplucked eyebrows...Losing confidence, I stare back down at the table, fawning interest in my napkin. "Why are you working here then?" I gulp, and keep playing with my napkin.

But I can't help but snap my head back up when he starts talking. It's true, he does go to private school—Dalton Academy, but his family's wealth is declining. Neither of his parents have jobs that make so much money—in actuality, his family is living off of inheritance, which is quickly depleting. Normally, his parents would donate money to an Ivy league school, which would "liken the chances" of his college acceptance. However, since that is clearly not an option anymore, Rutherford is trying to gain some business and financial experience, to boost his application like "everyone else", which is why he works as a bookkeeper for the Lima Bean.

I listen to this with growing respect and admiration for him. What was minutes ago an infatuation is turning into something more...heart-wrenching. "That's nice to know," I say lightly, but when I look at Rutherford, I know that it may have come across as rude or mean. Hastily, I say, "I mean, that's good—great! It's because you know...," I put my hands in front of me, grasping nothing but thin air, "Umm...I want to get into Colombia and Yale," I know I've said more than but I just keep babbling out of desperation, "So, that's why I'm in Newspaper, Debate Club, Model United Nations, Glee—"

Rutherford interrupts, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Glee?"

Sonya and I look at each other. We both know that Glee is _far_ below the popularity scale at McKinley, and it might be the same at Dalton. "Yeah...," I say, unsure of myself. I'm also mad, because if Glee _is_ just as lame at Dalton, then my never-apparent chances with Rutherford are now even _more_ never apparent.

But God must be on my side, because Rutherford perks up and smiles broadly. "No way—that's great! _You?_" He looks at me expectantly, but I'm frozen from shock and surprise. It doesn't matter anyways, since he keeps talking. "I would never have guessed you as the singing type...Wow, though...We have a Glee club at our school—the Warblers—and _God_, they are amazing, the best!"

I can't help but smile, seeing him gushing about the Warblers, but some part inside me wants to put a smudge on it as well. I _am_ from New Directions, after all. "I wouldn't say the _best_. New Directions _did_ beat them at Regionals last year," I say mockingly. Sonya stifles a laugh and Rutherford raises his eyebrows, leaning in towards me, crossing his hands in front of him.

"Say that again, I dare you..."

I copy him and lean in, so close that if I closed my eyes and moved a little more forward, I could kiss him. This could be considered flirting, or mock-rivalry—I'll take either. "New Directions...is _better_."

For a moment, my heart skips a beat, as Rutherford looks down (at my lips?[am I reading too much into this?]), his eyelashes just barely touching the skin underneath his eyes, sparkling light brown in the light. And when he looks back up, ice stabs my heart and I do all that I can to not jolt backwards. His eyes aren't a piercing color—just a normal green, but his gaze...I could stare all day long and I wouldn't regret anything. Before I do anything stupid (like lean in to kiss him), I reluctantly pull back and sit down with my arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

He's still on the table and as he talks, I feel a pang inside of me, imaging myself still there with him, kissing him, brushing against his lips. "Alright...then come to Dalton. Watch them, and then _eat your words_."

It takes me a moment to realize his infliction and shake away my daze, but I'm on it. "You're on."

And true to my word, I suddenly myself at Dalton Academy. It's a Monday, and Sonya and I skipped seventh period, and even as I'm walking through the halls I _still_ cannot believe I got caught up in this. What the hell am I doing here? I didn't _actually_ intend on coming here when I made the"deal" on Saturday—I thought it was just a friendly, flirtatious joke.

But the fact of the matter is that I _am_ here, and I can't help but notice the _grandeur_ of the school. Carpeted floors with intricate designs, paneled wooden walls, genuine portraits from the artists themselves, chandeliers, beautifully carved balustrades...and such an academic and posh feel to it. I run my hands along the walls, and timidly touch the brush strokes on the paintings, still incapable of taking it all in. No _way_ a place like this can exist fifteen minutes from Lima. I hear footsteps behind me and watch as two boys in Dalton uniform walk by us, a quizzical expression on their faces. Of course, an all boys schools—I doubt they get many female visitors.

I turn around, but not soon enough to miss the boys craning their necks around as they walk away, their faces animated and smiling. I take offense and turn around to talk to Sonya—only she's not there. She's across the hall, in a corner, looking at me with a devious smile, dark shadows playing on her face ominously—or maybe it's just my eyes.

"What," I ask.

She half runs, half walks to me and smiles. "I told you so."

"Told me what?"

"About the shirt," she says impatiently, and as I look down and realization strikes me, she smirks.

Under threat, I was forced to wear my white v-neck top today, along with my push-up bra. I admit, it makes my figure look really good, but I also feel exposed, especially in a school full of boys. _Especially_ since Sonya told me to wear it for Rutherford.

"I _told_ you, he doesn't like me—"

"Right, so that's why he keeps talking to you?"

"Oh my God, not to me, to _us_! Why do you always have to take things out of proportion?"

"I see him checking you out. Why would he check _you_ out and not the other girls?"

"Because..." I feel rosy in my cheeks, and though I still don't believe in Sonya, I'm wishing it's true. I've never had a boyfriend before, nor a first kiss...and I'm almost near the end of high school, and to do it with someone like Rutherford...

"Exactly," says Sonya, and steers me away from the wall and we walk through the halls to find the common area—where the Warblers practice. We stand outside the room for ten minutes, waiting for classes to end, and when they do, my heart suddenly begins running a marathon. What _if_ Sonya wasn't delusional and Rutherford...

No, that can't be true, not in a hundred years. _I_ am a normal girl, with average looks, with an average personality. I can be funny sometimes, but who really cares? And if guys like Rutherford have such high standards about a girl, what would make him like someone like _me_, someone far below his standards? I think about this as classes let out, and only look up when Sonya elbows me in the ribs.

Rutherford is walking towards us, like a _Dead Poet's Society_ kink fantasy come true. He breaks into a smile and calls out to us. "Hey!"

"Hi," Sonya yells, as I wave.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see people walking into the common room, no doubt the Warblers getting ready to practice. In the corner of my mind, I curiously feel something ominous, like I had something dreadful associated with the Warblers, but that I was forgetting. When Rutherford walks up to us, he says "Hey" again, but instead looks down. Sonya elbows me in the ribs again and has that same, creepy smile on her face. So...I guess he's looking at my breasts?

I feel naked, and uncomfortable, like I shouldn't be wearing the shirt but once Rutherford looks up again, taking in a deep breath and looks me in the eyes, I feel better. Not that he's looking at breasts, but that I had an effect on him...that _maybe_ Sonya was onto something. And that maybe, I'll finally have a boyfriend.

But before I can get in over my head, the three of us start talking. We being by talking about how confusing his texts were about where the room was and then find ourselves listening to him go on about soccer and Manchester United, Liverpool sucks, blah blah blah...For a cute guy, he could talk a lot.

So thank God when he gets distracted, and calls out to a boy about to walk into the common room. "Sebastian!"

I take that back.

My hearts skips a beat and I cannot take my eyes off of him as he walks towards us, his hands in his pockets, a smirk on his face. I look from Rutherford to Sebastian, back and forth, really trying to see if my eyes were playing a trick on me. Of course, they weren't. _Perfect_.

"Rutherford," he says, nodding his head up in the douchiest way possible. And then he turns to Sonya and I, his eyes only on me. "Vivian...I didn't know you knew Rutherford." His cool eyes look into mine, but he doesn't faze me.

Rutherford is about to speak, probably to ask why Sebastian called me Vivian, but I cut him off my placing my hand on his stomach. "Yeah, well, I didn't know he was friends with douches."

"You genuinely offend me, because I care _so much_ about your opinion," he says, placing a hand over his heart.

"Enough to want to know how to break up a couple."

"Only because you can't stop me." Before either I or Sonya can retort, he turns his head to Rutherford. "Are you going to Evan's party on Saturday?"

Rutherford, who I assume has been gaping the entire time, says, "Um, yeah...yeah totally! It's going to be crazy. Are you?"

"Of course. In fact, you should bring your girlfriend with you." Sebastian turns to face me, and all at once, I feel like my stomach has dropped into an abyss. _Girlfriend?_ I take a deep breath, and mentally shake my head. Of course, _of course_ he has a girlfriend. I feel stupid and begin to cross my arms, too aware that my hand was still on Rutherford's stomach.

He looks up, startled. "Girlfriend?"

"You two _are_ going out, aren't you," asks Sebastian, pointing his finger back and forth from Rutherford and..._me_. I snap my head to Sonya, who is as equally surprised, and snap back to look up at Rutherford. He's only just processing it, and before he can say anything, without thinking, I grab Sebastian's shoulder and pull him in towards me with an iron grip.

"Actually, why don't you and Rutherford go inside, I have to talk to Sebastian about something." My heart is beating and I'm staring widely at Sonya, to get her to lead Rutherford away. Quickly, she gets the cue and pushes Rutherford nonchalantly away, talking about Manchester United. I watch them walk into the common room and only realize that I am alone with Sebastian when I feel my arms drop to the side.

I snap to my left and there we are, once again face to face. Sebastian's left eyebrow is raised as he snobbishly dusts his right shoulder, his face a mixture of curiosity and irritation.

Before he can speak, I try my best not to yell. "_What_ _the hell_ are you doing?"

Like a fucking douche, he pulls on the lapels of his blazer and begins to tuck the ends of his sleeves, completely ignoring me, trying to make me feel insignificant, or not worth his while. "What do you mean?"

I raise my eyebrows incredulously. "Cut the bullshit! You purposely called me his girlfriend—"

"An honest mistake—"

"Knowing you? I don't think so." I cross my arms, and grit my teeth. I'm tired of his bullshit and his stupid, conniving ways. Why does he always have to play dirty? Can't he leave me alone and face the fact I don't want to help him breakup Blaine and Kurt? Such a brat!

Sebastian smiles and turns his nose up, looking around the hallway. I'm about to yell at him again when he looks at me from underneath his eyes. "Does it matter? You wouldn't last even a _day_ as Rutherford's girlfriend." I open my mouth but he levels his eyes with mine and says with contempt, "You have as much sexual allure as a slug."

Oh, hell no! I'm about to swing my arm around and punch him in the jaw or _something_ but before I can get a swing in, he tilts his head to the side and mocks concern. "Oh, did I offend you?" And suddenly, he leans his head in and growls, "Because it's true."

I step back and am speechless. I don't know what concerns me more—that he's calling me ugly or his sudden, menacing presence. His eyebrows are creased and he no longer has a smile on his face—just a grimace. I'm suddenly scared, that he'll start attacking me or go on a rampage—I honestly don't know what to expect.

His nostrils are flaring as he says, "Have you _ever_ had sex? Do you even _know_ what a kiss feels like? Because Vivian I can _assure_ you, once Rutherford finds out, he won't want you. Do you really think he wants to play with a girl when he can just as easily find an experienced, _mature_ one? You're a _loser_ and always will be." He laughs and nods his head to my v-neck, raising his eyebrows in amusement. "You _really_ think that can make you sexy?" The corners of his mouth and nose twitch, "A boy's never even _touched_ your breasts. And why would they...they're so _petite_," he says softly, putting his hands back into his pockets.

And just like that, he's not menacing anymore.

His face is composed, as if he were waiting for a train to arrive. I am only faintly freaked out, more attentive on his "comments". I lack sexual allure, Rutherford thinks I'm a joke, my breasts are _small_. What Sebastian did was look into my heart and bring it all out into the light. I begin to feel weak, hopeless, hurt...I begin to cover my breasts by crossing my hands but as I look up, I remember: it's _Sebastian_. I don't give a shit about him or anything he has to say. Why should I take to heart _his_ opinions when I don't even respect him? As I look at his smug face, I want to punch him. Punch him in the jaw, in the chest, in the groin so he can never have gay sex again! I want to set his house on fire. Not because he insulted me, but because he think he's mightier than me..._stronger_ than me.

With a plan in my head, I fill in the gap between us and look him in the eye. I stare at him cold and hard. I can smell his cologne and hear him breath. "You think you're so much better than me," I say in a low voice, "but in actuality, _you're_ the pathetic one." He begins to stir but before he can have a chance to say anything, I cut him off. "And you're wrong," then with a deep breath, I swiftly grab both of his hands and place them on my breasts. My hands are on top of his, so I push onto them, forcing him to cup my breasts, his thumbs and forefingers touching the skin. It sends prickles down my spine, both good and bad. Good, because a guy is cupping my breasts, and actually even _touching_ parts of them. It feels great, to feel them in the hands of someone else. It feels...so fucking good. I stifle a soft moan and look up at Sebastian, and immediately, smile like a maniac. His eyebrows are raised and his mouth is slightly agape, unsure of what to do with himself. His fingers are twitching and I throw his hands off. He stares down at his hands and then at me, and for the first time, I see him unsure of himself.

I smile, and roughly rip a button of off his blazer and walk away. Without looking back, I say, "2 for Vivian, 0 for Sebastian."

As I walk into the common room, I meet Sonya's eyes. I try explaining to her in one glance how _great_ I feel; how fierce and strong. I showed up _Sebastian_, for the _second_ time. I showed up that little piece of shit that _I cannot_ be brought down by him, that he cannot faze me or bully me. I'm better than him, and it's about time he learns it.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I don't know whether to be anxious or wary of your reactions. I know, so far you're only getting a bit of Sebastian but just wait...I have something special planned for the next chapter that will _really_ get things going. As far as your concerns for Anne/Rutherford...don't sweat it, it's still going to be Anne/Sebastian..._eventually_ (hahahaha). I also pay attention to your usernames, so when I mentioned Manchester United, you know who you are... And remember, please leave a review, whether sweet or sour!


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** I'm back! Sorry a thousand times for the long wait. Long story short: was unsure about the chapter and plot/was abroad on vacation for two months with family. Good news: working on chapter 7 today. Bad news: no guarantee when it'll be published-but be assured that I haven't stopped writing.

* * *

><p>It's after school and through the doors of the choir room, I can see that the halls are starting to clear. School ended five minutes ago and Glee club doesn't start for another ten minutes, but the choir room is already near half full. Kurt and Blaine are here...Artie—Finn just walked in...Mike and Tina...Mercedes is lingering outside with her boyfriend...Rory...and—<p>

"Sorry I'm late, everyone! My locker was jammed and I _know_ I should be setting a better example than this. As—not to put myself on a pedestal, _but_—an essential member of New Directions..."

Rachel Berry.

As is customary, Tina and I exchange looks. I don't even roll my eyes, no matter how much the situation bothers me—it happens too often to put effort towards. I'll admit it flat out: I resent Rachel Berry. Every day that she's in the choir room means that another solo is taken away from me, with another chorus line shoved at me. I like singing, but I want to be _heard_; like everyone else, I want to be more noticed and given the opportunity to really shine. Unlike Rachel, whose stupid golden stickers shine all the time...

"_So_, how do you like working at the Lima Bean?" I snap my head around and am momentarily surprised, having all but forgotten that Kurt is sitting a chair away from me. Blaine leans over, resting his hands on his crossed legs.

"Um...good—_good_. It wears you out, but I'm getting the hang of it." If you can count waddling home on sore feet any improvement.

"At least you get free coffee, right?" Kurt grabs my knee and shakes it, smiling wide and tersely laughing like some psycho. He cocks his head and looks at me, while Blaine rolls his eyes and cups his chin in his hand.

Oh, I see...I take my phone out and presumably appear busy, going through my contacts, my messages. Nonchalantly, I say, "Oh, not exactly _free_. But we _do_ get discounts.." I leave Kurt hanging, and resist the urge to look up at him. Friends with benefits, I should have seen this coming from _miles_ away. I actually don't even mind giving discounts on orders, especially with Kurt or Blaine—any of my friends really (suck it Rachel Berry). But when I know I'm being played, the tables _have_ to turn. So let Kurt suffer, if only for a few minutes.

He must have been waiting for me to say something else, but when I don't, he says, "That's great! The Lima Bean is such a..._fine_ establishment, the best in Lima. Their coffee is _the_ perfect fix for a cold and..._harsh_, winter evening." I'm still diddling with my phone, so he reluctantly continues, "Blaine and I go there so often that," he puts his hands up, "it's like we're being robbed. Isn't that right Blaine?" He turns to Blaine, but I guess he must have been rolling his eyes, because Kurt turns around to me and says, "Yup, money can't last forever...," shaking his head.

I hold back a snort of laughter and finally decide to look up. Kurt smiles widely at me and it's hard not to scoot back a few inches. I see Blaine behind Kurt shaking his head and shrug his shoulders, as if to say he's sorry. I give him a small smile and turn my attention back to Kurt. "Do you want a discount?"

Seeing Kurt act is like seeing a turtle try to get off of it's back—funny, yet sad. He widens his eyes and mouth, placing a hand over his heart, blinking his eyes as if he possibly could not believe it. "_Me?_ That is _so_ kind of you—"

"If you don't want it, I could just give it to Puck—"

Kurt blurts out a ridiculously horrendous laugh, "HAHA! No, I'll take it," he says, feverishly nodding his head.

"Great..." I reach into my purse and take a plastic card out of my wallet, and place it in Kurt's grabby hands. He looks over it eagerly and as he's putting it in his wallet, he nonchalantly asks, "Sebastian hasn't been around, has he?"

The first thing I do is smirk. It's been two days since the encounter at Dalton but I still recall it fondly. The look on his face—_priceless_. I still have the button I ripped off of his blazer, sitting on my desk at home. I've taken to twirling it around in my hands when I'm bored or am thinking, and no matter what, it always manages to give me a great sense of satisfaction. Would calling it a "victory token" be too much? I'll admit, his bipolar attitude still freaks me out, but what can words do? He was trying (and almost succeeded) to put me down, but only because he felt bitter that his menacing antics weren't working on me. He couldn't get me to spill the beans about Kurt, and boo hoo for him. He's just bitter and pathetic, and somehow...I thought he would _at least_ be above that.

"Not since last wee—" I stop myself. I still haven't told Kurt or Blaine about my chance meetings with Sebastian and _damnit_, I didn't want it to be like this. In a desperate move, I go back to my phone, but I can feel the _burn_ of Kurt's gaze boring onto my shoulder. Tentatively, I look up. Kurt's lips are pursed, with dagger-like eyes beneath an arched eyebrow. Amazing how he can go from friendly to hostile in less than a second. I gulp, whether because I'm in trouble or of my newly acquired thirst. Kurt narrows his eyes, locking onto my throat.

Well, there's no use in beating around the bush.

I try sounding nonchalant but I can't tell if it's working, "Um, yeah...so...," I uselessly clap my hands together, "I mean, Sebastian's been to the Lima Bean...a couple of more times ."

"From when you started at the Lima Bean, I presume?"

I look back and forth from Blaine and Kurt; puppy dogs eyes and the infernos of hell. I feel so _guilty_, and I am sure they can see it on my face. _Crap._ But they don't know the right reasons for why I feel like this. My heart starts racing—do I tell them about what happened _between_ Sebastian and I? The Lima Bean stand-offs, the mess/victory at Dalton, _the texts_? I start to rationalize; what should I? What does it mean to them, anyways? When they're concerned with Sebastian, it's about keeping their relationship intact, not about _me_. And besides, I haven't told Sebastian anything at all concerning them, so big deal...right?

I look Kurt in the eyes and try my best not to flinch. "No...from since when we saw him there last time." Kurt opens his mouth but I cut him off. "Look, you might be mad at me, but what do you expect me to do? Tell you how he takes his coffee or how he's assaulting the chairs? I just didn't think it was a big deal so, sorry..." I give my best convincing I-didn't-do-anything-wrong-but-sorry shrug and hope for the best.

"There's no need, Anne. Kurt's just overreacting as _always_," reassures Blaine, and gives Kurt a pointed look, raising his eyebrows towards me. Kurt's head is tilted away from me, and he's looking down his nose, no doubt contemplating whether or not to stay/be mad at me. He sighs and turns to give me a small, tired smile. "Just stay on the lookout...maybe he's got a Pumbaa."

"Don't ruin Lion King for me..."

"He can ruin a lot more than that..."

* * *

><p>We can hear the music from across the street, and it seems as if the car itself is shaking from the bass. I clumsily push myself out of the car, unsure on my legs at first, but gain balance. The last time I wore heels was when my cousin got married six months ago, and even then they weren't <em>so<em> high. I admit they're cute but _god_, does looking pretty always have to come with a price? Sonya said that they nicely "accentuate" my calves and make my butt look nice, but I can only feel pain.

"You'll get used to it, just don't think about it, okay?" Sonya rolls her eyes as she auto-locks the car, and goes to stand by me on the sidewalk. Together, we look at the house across the street.

One thing that instantly stood out as we entered the neighborhood were the cars: Mercedes, BMWs, Range Rovers, and maybe some Porsches, but we weren't sure in the dark. Point of the fact is, we stand out like sore thumbs in Sonya's 2008 Honda. Maybe when go inside it won't matter at all, but standing outside, in front of what can only be a minimum one million dollar house, it's hard _not_ to feel insignificant and out of place. We're in Dalton territory—prep school, collar popping, skiing in the Alps, Ivy League land. As a group of girls walk by us, I can't help but look at what I'm wearing. A white lace top, with a white tank top underneath; a black peacoat; skinny jeans; pink high heel pumps; a bracelet; some eyeliner and lip gloss; and my phone, since I have nowhere to put it but in my hands. I look up and Sonya and I exchange nervous looks.

Before accepting Rutherford's invitation as his plus twos, Sonya and I were hesitant. On a norm, we usually don't go to high school parties anyways—cheap drinking, snorting crack, getting laid, etc., aren't our type of thing. But for this party—not _only_ that—Sonya and I would be in an...uncomfortable setting. How do we fit in, or act—will we stand out? We _dream_ of the high life, but no way can we actually fit in. After seeing the girls that walked by, our insecurities may just have risen by tenfold. How do we match up to them? I start to feel nervous and am growing impatient—the longer we wait out here for Rutherford to take us in, the more I feel like driving away.

I silently start cursing Rutherford when a car pulls up behind Sonya's, blinding us with white light. My eyes become watery, and I reach out to shield myself from the brightness. As I face away from the light, I wish with all of my gut that it's Rutherford to take us inside, and out of this miserable cold. Or better yet, that it's not Rutherford, so I can go home and read a book in the toasty comfort of my bed and blankets. The headlights turn off and I all too suddenly turn around, searching for a chestnut-haired, strong eyebrowed guy. To my disappointment, unfamiliar boys get out of the car, neither of them the face I was hoping to see.

My last remaining strength now uprooted and a sudden urge to pee, I turn to Sonya, my breath misting in the dark. "Let's just go."

"_What?_"

"Go, let's go! I don't want to go to the party anymore, come one..." I take a few steps towards the car, but Sonya doesn't follow. Her arms are crossed across her shoulders and she doesn't look like she'll budge anytime soon.

"Seriously? Rutherford's not even here, forget him, come on," I plead. I walk up to her and start digging in her pockets, eager to get into the warmth and comfort of the car. We fuss for a bit, totally oblivious to the group of guys standing next to the car behind us, and battle, shove and shoulder our way for the keys. Sonya steps back and fists her hands around them, another hand held out, making me step back a few paces. I hop on the balls of my feet as she talks. "What about Rutherford?"

I switch to pacing back and forth the width of the sidewalk. "Whatever, I don't care."

"_Really?_ Because if I recall, the reason you even _wanted_ to come—"

"_Hey._" My heart skips a beat and I turn around.

My face starts to get warm as Rutherford leans in to hug me, his hard muscles padded by his hoodie and jacket combo. My pulse picks up and I get squirmy, though I don't know from which more—his hug or that he might have heard Sonya and I talking. As I watch Sonya and him hug, my mind beings to race—so fast that I don't even know _what_ I'm thinking; all I can hear is buzzing. Time seemingly stops; every breath, move and word is moving frame by frame, slower and slower. Time is dragging on, along with it my misery and humility. He _can't_ know that I have a crush on him...

My eyes dart over him, looking for any sign of laughter, contempt, incredulity—anything that would indicate that he knows. He picks up on this and squints his eyes playfully.

"What?"

I start, and gape at him what I can presumably imagine like a goldfish, nothing coming to mind.

Sonya's eyes catch mine and I find myself saying, "You're late." I turn myself around to face him and cross my arms, hoping that I come off as sassy, upset—whatever.

Rutherford smiles and laughs, pushing the sleeves of his jacket up to his arm. "No I'm not..."

"_So too_. Any longer and we could have...have..."

Rutherford laughs and puts both of his hands up. "Stop talking—hey!" I don't think my punch to his shoulder could have hurt him but he makes it seem so for my sake. He rubs his shoulder, shoots me a pointed look, and walks away, towards the house. Sonya and I follow after him, his friends soon following behind us.

I wince at the sharp pain I feel on my toes, and try to discretely bend my knees to help make the walking easier. Sonya shoots me a contemptuous glare and edges away from me, hovering ahead to walk besides Rutherford. But instead, he hangs back, and soon, all three of us are more or less walking the same pace, in a straight line. Occasionally, Rutherford and I come close to brushing hands, and I jerk mine away, no matter how much I want to do just the opposite.

I shake my head, and bitterly smile at the irony.

"What," asks Rutherford, grinning.

We're almost to the door of the house, and the noise has risen exponentially. Flanking us on either side of the cement stairs are precisely cut hedges, their cuts mimicking the ascent of the stairs. Up ahead, the large circle bay windows in the center of the house create a backdrop for the large marble water fountain, running even in the night, when barely anyone cares. Well, maybe the social elite do...

Half-lying, I look up at Rutherford, "That's a really nice house, mansion-thing."

He laughs and looks up at the house. I'm staring intently at his jawline when he turns to face me, catching my eye before I pretend to busy myself with my phone, checking old messages and sliding through the menu. I think it may just be me, but I think I hear Rutherford chuckle. My cheeks grow warm, even though it's freezing cold.

We reach the front of the house and are immediately engulfed by dancers in the foyer. Strobe lights must have been setup somewhere, because the lights flicker on and off rhythmically, synchronized with the music. It's hard to get used to the lights at first—it's as if every few seconds of my life were being omitted, making my movements choppy and clumsy. Two or three times I accidentally bump into someone, but I can't see who they are because I can't find them the next. The fog takes time to get used to as well, but eventually Sonya, Rutherford and I (_Rutherford and I..._why is something as simple like that making me blush?) push through the crowd and into the kitchen and out of the strobe lights and fog. Though it's still early in the night, several bottles of expensive beer and vodka are empty, and even some wine bottles are open, their corkscrews carelessly tossed aside. My eyes are trained onto a neat stack of unused shot glasses when I bump into someone. I look up and it's Rutherford, but as I start to apologize (or stutter and gasp like I have a disease), I realize my words are lost on him.

His back is to me and when he turns around, nonchalantly hands Sonya and I open bottles of beer. I take it gingerly in my hand and look at Sonya. To be honest, I've never had much alcohol save for the beer or wine my parents let me sip every now and then, and _never_ have I ever drank at a party. The bitter smell stinks up my nose as I watch Rutherford take a drink, and it isn't until he points it out that I notice my mouth is gaping.

"What?"

I shake out of my daze and train my eyes away from his Adam's apple. He's leaning his back against the stainless steel counter, one hand in his pocket, the other with a beer in his hand. His chestnut hair tumbles stylishly onto his forehead, and for a moment I doubt that I'm his plus one, nevertheless are friends with him. It's sort of like a dream or a cliché high school movie...but I don't mind.

"Nothing," I say.

He nods his chin at my beer. "Aren't you going to drink...or—_do_ you drink," he asks, his beer held mid-air.

I nod feverishly, like he's some kind of idiot and should feel stupid for it. "Not _now_...we've barely just come here." Sideways, I glance at Sonya, who's wiping the condensation of off her bottle. So I guess she doesn't want to tell him, either.

"Oh, so you _do_ drink," he says, breaking into a wide smile. He laughs and almost spits his drink out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, not once leaving sight of me as he guffaws like an idiot. I should feel offended but a) he's looking at me and I like that, and b) I'd laugh at me too. I mutter and playfully shove him on the shoulder.

Sonya and I meet and talk with the rest of Rutherford's friends (most of which are from Dalton Academy for Preppy WASP Boys With Too-Much-Cash-To-Burn-But-Are-Nice-About-It), and we have a good time throughout the night. The foyer gets more crowded throughout the night as it progresses, and people often stumble out, shiny with sweat, even though it's freezing outside. I hear splashes outside and can only assume there is a heated (else they're all raging drunk) swimming pool in the backyard.

A girl walks towards me, and I move aside to let her grab a bottle from the counter behind me, but instead, she stops and talks with Rutherford. Oh, right—he knows other girls too.

I shift uncomfortably on my legs, unsure of what to do with myself. I look away nonchalantly, suddenly interested in the kitchen and my phone. I pretend to text someone and smile, as if absolutely nothing is bothering me when in actuality my heart is weeping.

Okay, maybe that's a bit dramatic but anymore of this and I could go paranoid. Pretending to look around the kitchen, I quickly glance at the girl Rutherford is talking to—blonde, skinny, hot. _Damnit_. This bothers me—a lot. Because even though I probably have a 0:1 chance with Rutherford, he could easily end up with _her_. Ruthlessly—on instinct—I instantaneously go on bitch mode, devouring her with my eyes, looking for anything that would lead me to believe that she's a slut or way beneath me. A mechanism, if you will, to help make me feel less helpless and more...what? Better? Covertly, I steal glances at her. Eyeliner, blush, powder, lip gloss; a plunge top that just barely classifies as revealing; stylishly ripped jeans; heels. I knit my eyebrows, disgruntled; she doesn't even have hoop earrings. At a loss, I zone in on the bottle of beer in her hand. It's halfway empty, though from hearing her talk, I can't really say if she's beginning to get drunk or just barely started drinking.

Suddenly, I get a feeling—like a nagging—and look up and start. The girl and I lock eyes and my face grows warm from embarrassment. I meekly smile, and hurriedly look away, so to make her presume that I was only staring at her by chance. But Rutherford notices the exchange and introduces me to _Helen—_a dull name for a beautiful girl but yet...Helen of Troy, I think bitterly.

She smiles at me and waves her hand. "It's nice to meet you. I go to Crawford Country Day."

What the hell? I scrunch my nose and knit my eyebrows together, "Is that a...farm or...," I trail off, at a loss for ideas.

Both Rutherford and Helen laugh and I feel the heat start to rise up in my cheeks—a feeling I've all but become accustomed to tonight. Rutherford mutters "I told you" to Helen before taking a swig from his bottle. "No, far from it. It's...actually the sister school to Dalton Academy."

I tilt my head to the side and look at her as if she's batshit crazy. "That is complete bullshit."

We all laugh this time and I start to grow more comfortable around Helen. She seems alright—and she is. As I get to know more about her, I learn that she's a scholarship student at Country Day, but is incredibly humble about it, and swears that they let her in to diversify the school. But she's not a stiff either—she's written papers for the other girls a few times, "$200 each," with a tone of incredulity and condescension. As Rutherford tries to protest and justify "his people", the two of us roll our eyes and rag on him throughout the night.

* * *

><p>I don't know how long the three of us have been standing in the kitchen and talking, but it must have been a while, because the music playlist is starting to repeat.<p>

_Oooooooooh oooooooooooooooooh, sometimes I get a good feeling...yeah..._

Faintly, I remember Rutherford telling Sonya and I that this party was going to be wild, and that he's been looking forward to it all week. I look to my left and see Rutherford, standing and holding a bottle of beer as ever. I wouldn't consider that even remotely wild...But we _have_ heard otherwise. Twice we heard people chanting "Chug, chug, chug, chug!" to the rooms left of us and a stocky brunette I could only assume as Evan came into the kitchen several times to get a large tray of colorful jello shots, and salt and lime wedges. I couldn't ask Rutherford who he was, because he and Helen were talking. Whatever crazy things Rutherford imagined doing tonight, he's wasting it away talking to us.

Not that I mind.

Rutherford and I are listening to Helen, telling us an embarrassing story about a girl in her English class, when I start to realize the amount of blush she has on. It's a bit too strong for my liking but...I lean closer, to get a better look, when instead I put my face into the crook of Rutherford's neck. Or rather, he puts his neck into my face. My heart skips a beat and flies to my throat, and I take a sharp intake of breath. I stand there, still, my heart beating loudly, like a hollow drum. He smells like cologne but underneath that, this close to him, I can smell his musk...I can smell _him_, the smell you get only when you're unbearably close to someone. _Like now_, I think faintly. I tilt my head up, maybe expecting a kiss, but as I look up from underneath my eyelashes, I see his pink cheeks, and a faint smile on his lips. He looks down at me and for an instant, our eyes are locked and all either of us would need to do, is bring our heads closer...just a little more...almost...

At the last moment, he pulls away. My eyes trail him as he pulls back to my left, and don't notice that he's holding my phone until he waves it in my face, his cheeks still flushed. I don't have time to speak or smile, or evaluate what just happened, because currently my phone is vibrating, with "Dad" displayed on the screen. Hurriedly, I take my phone and walk out of the kitchen.

"Dad?" There are open doors to my left and right, and gingerly I peek into each one of them, looking for an empty room to drown the music out.

My dad says something, but I can't hear him. I press the phone closer to my ear, and cover the other with the back of my hand since I'm still holding a bottle of beer. "What? I can't hear you."

Three doors down, to my right, I find an empty room, with only a ladder and two walls of peeled wallpaper to name as occupants. I shut the door behind me, and set the bottle of beer onto the hardwood floor. The music is still loud, but not so much that I have to cover my ears.

"...you?"

"Wait I couldn't hear you before, can you say it again?"

The static picks up on his end, until my dad says, "Where. Are. You?" His voice is strained and low, like he does when he's angry.

Knowing I'm standing on thin ice, I cautiously say, "At a party—"

"—that you never told us about. Did it _ever_ cross your mind that _first_, you have to get our permission—"

"—I _did_. I asked Mom on Wednesday and she said it was okay." Silence on the other end. "Didn't she tell you," I ask, and almost drop the phone in haste. _FUCK!_ Not good, _not good!_ I was in such a hurry to fill the silence that damnit, I forgot, _forgot_ that they're in a fight and haven't spoken to each other in a week and that our family is a mess and—

"No," my dad replies...bitterly. All I can say is "Oh."

Together, we stay on the line, in silence. After a while, he breaks it first. "How long do you plan on staying?"

"I...I asked if I could stay till 12 and...I could." I didn't want to say "Mom", but it was obvious enough.

"Do you need me to pick you up?"

"No, Sonya's with me too."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Where are you," I ask.

Silence.

Maybe he didn't hear. "Dad? Where are you?"

"Don't do anything bad, understand? You're too young and too smart. I trust you, you're a good girl." And he hangs up before I can say anything else.

Normally, I wouldn't take much interest in that he rebuffed my question, but a part of me is nagging at it, tugging on the...accusation by my mother. _He's with someone_, it whispers. _He's doing something you're not supposed to know about..._

I shake my head roughly, and start walking around the room. I look at the wallpaper that is still left on the other walls, a pretty pattern of flowers that are stained by age. But not matter how much interest I take in the pink, red and yellow roses, the nagging comes back. Suddenly, I notice how thirsty I am.

Glad for an excuse, I hurriedly walk out of the room and down the hall. I haven't drank anything since we arrived at the party, my fingers cramped from holding the bottle of beer that I never took a sip of. Down the hall I walk, past rooms that are now closed, and between people straggling from them. I walk and walk and walk, thinking all the time that if only I could get a sip of water, everything will be fine. That I can think about what was happening with Dad.

I see the sink ahead and scan the room for unused cups until...I stop, dead center in the kitchen. I...

I shake my head once more and widen my eyes to get a better look, but as soon as I do, I turn around and walk back the way I had come from. I walk and walk and walk, thinking that if I go back to the empty room, everything will be better.

But it's not empty anymore. Instead, there are a group of people inside it, and when I walk in, some stop and stare at me. I look like a fool, and quickly go to the side and pick up the bottle of beer I left on the ground. Then I leave.

I continue walking to the left of the house, until I find myself in the foyer. I raise the bottle of beer to my chest so it won't spill, and I shove my way through everyone. The strobe lights are still going on and off, and the dancing is rowdy and crowded, but I manage to push through everyone, until somehow, someway, I'm outside, breathing in the sharp, cold air. I left my coat inside the house, but regardless I walk into the empty backyard, save for a group of three girls. Without thinking, or hesitating, I walk on, and finally come to a stop at the barbeque pit, and lean against the cold steel, and shiver.

I remember how thirsty I am and without a care, I lift the bottle of beer to my lips, and swallow. The taste is horrendous, a terrible bitter liquid that almost goes up my nose as I try to swallow the huge gulp. I double over and hold my head in my hand, my head slowly starting to rush. I lift my head up and think.

Bitterly, I sing to myself. _Rutherford and Helen, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G_. The worst part isn't that he's kissing her, but that Helen is actually a good, decent, _nice_ person. That she isn't some slut or drunk, but it's genuine and _fuck everything_, why am I dealing with so much shit the past two weeks? I want to throw the bottle of beer on the ground and watch the shards of glass fly through the air, but instead I take another swig.

Fuck everything, I think. I don't have to deal with this, I _don't want to_ deal with this. This is a party and I'm supposed to have fun. Why aren't I having fun? Sonya is in the foyer dancing, having a blast and what am I doing? Standing outside in the cold, drinking beer like a fucking priss.

I smile. My head is starting to get light, and as I look down at my hand, I bitterly laugh to myself. I'm drinking beer for the first time. Well, not for the first time but, the first time I took more than a sip. I'm not sure if I should be proud of it. I don't _want_ to get drunk...not yet, I think. For a moment, I look out into the night. The swimming pool has underwater lights, the blue chlorine lit up, surrounded by tiles of intricate design. To my right, I can see everyone inside the house. Through some windows, on the second floor, I see some couples kissing, their silhouettes against the curtains. Once more, I think about Rutherford and Helen. I think about it, hard and slow. I think about it so much, that I'm not really thinking at all, but just watching them as I had seen them in the kitchen, kissing. The more I think about it, the more I don't care. Faintly, I wonder if it's the beer, desensitizing me.

There are goosebumps on my shoulders and arms, on the back of my neck, and I start loosing feeling in my hands. I set the beer down on the brick counter and flex my fingers and wring my wrists. My breath comes out in a cool white mist. I look around me, and notice rings of mist to my right. Smoke, I realize, the red ends cigarettes bright in the dark. One of them, a boy, walks toward a group of girls at the side of the pool, waving his hands in the air. The other is standing alone, until they start walking forward. The red end bobs in the dark, but as it comes closer, I notice that it's owner is a boy too.

It's Sebastian Smythe.

Without so much as batting an eye, I reach for the bottle of beer and take another swig. As I set it down and watch him come forward, I smile wide, remembering what had happened the last time we met. That stupid look on his face. What I did. I feel myself blushing at the thought of his hands pressing on my breasts and giddy at my stupid boldness, and I know it's the beer talking when I call out to him, "Back for another feel?"

I watch carefully as his walk falters for half a second, until he walks up to me, and leans against the barbeque pit. Now that he's closer, I want to retch, and not because of the beer. He looks like a Ralph Lauren catalog; a red polo sweater with a stupid popped white collar, a striped white-and-blue nautical belt, and dark blue pants. His hair is stupidly quiffed and perfect. As he takes a drag on his cigarette, I can't help but be mesmerized, and even a little turned on.

Sebastian blows out smoke, and finally says, "Did your Mommy finally let you drink from the grown-up cabinet? Take it nice and slow, beer isn't like wine coolers."

Almost immediately I reply, "'Nice and slow'—that's how you like it, right? Up the ass, I mean." Sebastian turns his head around to face me and smirks.

"And how do you like it?" He brings the cigarette up to his mouth but pauses, to add, "Oh wait." As he takes a drag, he still manages to smile and doesn't break eye contact with me. I know he's gauging my reaction and for once, I silently thank the cold air for already making my cheeks a pink hue.

I want to show him up, but I can't lie to him—he'll see right through me. But I can't let him keep that smirk on his face either—it's too ugly. "Are you sure about that," I say, raising an eyebrow. "Oh wait," I put both of my hands out in front of me, "I'm a slug, no one will _ever_ want to have sex with me. And yet..."

Sebastian raises an eyebrow and looks down at me from his nose, making a sound from the back of his throat, incredulous. "Not a chance."

I turn my body around and face him. Because he is leaning against the barbecue grill and I'm wearing heels, our eyes are almost level, save for two or three inches. I put my left hand out with three fingers, "Three truths," now my index finger, "and one lie." I don't know what I'm doing at this point, save for trying to keep balance on my heels. Sebastian crosses his arms, his mouth a set line, and raises his eyebrows, telling me to continue. I raise a finger up for each statement, "I live in Lima; I'm _not_ a virgin; I can't swim; and I hate you."

Sebastian smiles with his mouth closed, I guess meant to be condescending but I'm _way_ past caring. "Was this supposed to be clever? You're obviously a virg—"

"Wrong," I chime, holding the beer bottle to my lips. Looking ahead of me, I say, "I don't hate you," before taking a long, deep drink. The air outside made the beer as cold as _it_ is, and this time the sensation of it is pleasant, though truth be told I would much rather prefer a mug of hot chocolate. I glance back at Sebastian, who hasn't changed, save for an amused look on his face. Giddy at my own cleverness, I smile wide and deliver the punch line, "I _fucking_ hate you."

Sebastian snorts and takes a long drag on his cigarette. I watch him as he holds it up in between his index finger and thumb as his bright red lips close around it. He looks placid as he stares into the night, his eyes looking straight ahead and not straying—thinking. Faintly, I wonder why I'm still here as I trace his jawline with my eyes, faint stubble around his jaw, freshly shaved. He has several small, dark brown spots all over his face and neck; two under his left eyebrow, one right under his lips, one on his left ear lobe, two on his jaw line, two on his Adam's apple...I find myself wondering if his boyfriend ever kisses them, one by one, slowly trailing up his neck, playfully tugging his ear lobe before kissing it, trailing his jawline, teasing Sebastian by kissing just below his lips, until finally...

I shift my legs uncomfortably, my face becoming warm. I try looking elsewhere, but everything is boring and dull in comparison to him. His silver watch winks off of the moonlight and draws my eye to his left arm, hugging his chest. It's not until now that I realize the fabric of his sweater must be some type of stretch material, because it hugs his flexed bicep and tricep, huge hills of well-defined muscle that I never expected Sebastian to have. I've always assumed he was lanky—tall and skinny, with nothing to show. But looking closely at him now, past his hard arm...I think I can make out a few lumps on his stomach, abs probably. And his pants are quite skinny, so I assume those are muscle as well...He's everything a girl could want, I think—except he's a total fucking douche.

Reminded of that (did I forget it somehow?), I'm jarred out of my daze, and am all too aware that my time here is pointless. Why am I still here to begin with? Was I waiting for him to blow his smoke out and say something? Were we even having a conversation to begin with? Faintly, I think that all we do is bicker—and I'm tired of that.

Without hesitation, I start walking away towards the house. As I pass Sebastian, I feel a blast of warm smoke on my right arm. I turn my head on instinct and meet Sebastian's cool green eyes through the haze of smoke for a split second, until I look away and walk on.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Whether good or bad, please review! I'm always anxious to know your opinions.


	7. Announcement

Hey guys (if any of you are still there)!

Aha, what can I say, it's been a year since I updated-woops. I've stopped watching Glee a long time ago, and I hear that Sebastian is no longer with us, and when he does return for a brief amount of time, his hairs gone to rot and he's a sleeze or something.

I do miss writing chapters for this story, so who knows...Just checking in to see if anyone was interested? (me continuing the story that is)


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